


The Road To Nowhere

by jade_maiden_333



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dean Has Abandonment Issues, Gen, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Russo-Georgian War, Teenage Rebellion, War violence, past Dean Winchester/Pamela Barnes - Freeform, teenager in peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jade_maiden_333/pseuds/jade_maiden_333
Summary: Dean Winchester is a foreign journalist covering civil unrest in the city of Tskhinvali. Dean gets caught in the crossfire as he fights to get himself and his charge, teenager Krissy to safety. The journalist discovers that being on the run with a stubborn sixteen year old is his toughest assignment yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester is a foreign journalist covering civil unrest in the city of Tskhinvali. Dean gets caught in the crossfire as he fights to get himself and his charge, teenager Krissy to safety. The journalist discovers that being on the run with a stubborn sixteen year old is his toughest assignment yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art by [K6034](https://k6034.tumblr.com/) is the centerpiece of this work, and it was in daily gazing at her art that I found the inspiration to do the best job I could to bring Dean and Krissy to life. She also has an art-specific blog [here](https://k6034art.tumblr.com/). I'm so grateful she picked my fic in which to showcase her talent. 
> 
> I would also like to thank my beta, [brokenmasquerade](https://brokenmasquerade.tumblr.com/) for her honesty, insight and diligence in keeping me on track. She was integral in corralling my mad ideas into a cohesive story.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Dean stood on the main road. A slight breeze picked up the corner of his shirt collar, making him aware of the summer warmth. Taking in the view of the town center, he fished his phone from his pocket pleasantly surprised to see he had cell service. Dzara Road was the town’s main street. A handful of Soviet-era buildings dotted the thoroughfare. He made note of the location of the city hall and several stores. A small tree-lined park off set the main square, birds chirping over the sounds of light traffic. From practically anywhere on the square, a visitor could easily see the Caucasus mountains looming large and majestic.

 

Dean watched a van pull up a few feet away, stopping near enough for him to see a woman step out and deposit a small child on the narrow sidewalk. The little boy was absorbed with a neon orange toy gun he was holding and allowed the woman to lead him up the walkway. She was a pretty brunette though Dean thought that she was a little too thin.She had striking dark eyes standing out against pale skin, and she eyed him tentatively. Her lips hinted at a smile as she gently grabbed the little boy's hand, carefully maneuvering him past a bench. Dean tracked them for a moment, as the boy waved his pistol, making shooting noises at trees, passers-by and imagined baddies. He saw Dean and lifted the gun, squeezing off a shot, the snap of the plastic hammer cracking in the distance. Dean grabbed his chest, pretending the shooter hit his mark, and the boy’s face split into a satisfied grin. The woman glanced back once more, seeing the interaction. This time her smile showed very white, perfect teeth. Dean waved as they both disappeared through a shop entrance.

 

Dean arrived in-country on a Wednesday. He had wanted out of Beijing during the Olympics, so when his old friend and cameraman Andy called to tell him that he had found a story he couldn’t blow town fast enough. There were no stories to cover there. No stories that any one of the hundred and fifty-odd reporters, journalists and photographers weren’t already crawling all over. He’d obtained editorial clearance and squared away his travel documents so fast, he beat Andy into Georgia by a full day. He looked down at his phone, scrolling through his recent calls. His friend picked up on the first ring.

 

“Where are you, man?” Andy said without preamble.

“Tskhinvali. I got a driver to drop me off to meet with Lee.” 

“Buddy system, Dean. That means we probably should both be in Tskhinvali. Together.”

“Well then get your ass up here, and be careful. This place is a freaking tinderbox.” 

“When is it not a tinderbox? Pam has been here for months. The woman has stories that’ll scare you shitless. Call her,” Andy yelled into the phone, background noise rising and falling with the cadence of a dozen barroom conversations. “Listen, when you meet up with Lee, hang tight. We’ll rendezvous at the hotel and head to Java. There are reports of local militia conscripting young boys. I’m hearing about threats, coercion, general bad behavior. It’s definitely our kind of thing.” 

“Sounds like.” Dean heard the crack of what sounded like the report of a rifle in the distance. He switched his phone to his other ear. “When can I expect you? You’ll barely have time for prep work before we start interviewing.” 

“I’m heading north from Gori now. Give me an hour and a half, two hours tops.” 

Dean grunted into the phone and disconnected the call. Across the street, three older women sat, chatting amiably under a covered produce stand, their tables loaded with baskets of fresh oranges, grapes and pomegranates. They were dressed modestly, covered and scarved in the rising heat of the midday sun. Dean crossed the square, feeling their eyes on him. He sensed that he was the topic of their conversation. 

“Ladies,” Dean smiled. “I’m looking for Telman Street.” 

The women exchanged curious glances with each other. Foolishly  realizing that they didn’t speak English, he tried again. 

“Telman?” 

The woman seated in the center rocked back and laughed, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed to be the oldest, and she spoke for the others. She regarded Dean, sharp ebony eyes peeking out through a timeworn face. “Telman.” She pointed with a gnarled finger across the table, gesturing southeast of the main road, giving what Dean assumed were directions in rapid-fire Georgian. 

“Right,” Dean responded. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

She made a beckoning gesture at him, so tiny Dean wasn’t sure he had really seen it. He leaned closer to the old woman and she held out her hand; he placed his in hers with barely a thought, her bony grip warm and firm and strangely reassuring. Turning his hand over, she dropped a green apple into his calloused palm. He held onto the fruit, feeling the cool solidity permeate his skin. 

“Have a care, young man. Do not leave our town empty-handed.” Her words rasped but each was sounded out in perfect, unaccented American english. Her wizened face broke into a grin chuckling quietly. She released his hand, rocking back in her chair. Dean made to reach into his pocket for money but she waved him away with her refusal spoken once again in Georgian. He turned and headed up Dzara to the echoing chatter and laughter of the group of women. When got to the end of the block turning towards Telman, he’d all but forgotten the conversation, enjoying the cool crisp sweetness of the apple.

 

* * *

 

“Shit.”

Dean held the crumpled bit of newsprint up to the sunlight. He smoothed the scrap against the wall of the apartment building, hoping that the paper would reveal a hidden number, a letter. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was beginning to think he’d gotten himself lost. The tree-lined street was residential, rows and rows of unattractive gray apartment buildings. The residents had made valiant attempts at brightening their little corner of the world with a flowered curtain here, a potted plant there, but if you were looking for beauty it would be best to turn your back on the residences and take in the mountains, the pines, perhaps the river that ran alongside the city. His eyes caught the motion of a Five Cross flag on an upper balcony, its red crosses rising and falling like a challenge. 

“Come on, Winchester,” he muttered to himself, “You can find an apartment anywhere, for Christ sake. There’s no way you could get lost in Georgia.” 

He gave up on the scrap of paper, shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. Looking up and down the narrow road, he picked a direction and just started walking. A half block into his search a young girl jay walking ahead of him caught his eye. She was a tiny thing, hands jammed in her pockets and dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her spring loaded stride made him reluctant to stop her, but there was something in her face that made him take his chances. 

“Excuse me,” Dean waved at her. “English? Do you speak English?” 

The girl kept walking, solemn eyes on him, a combination of curiosity and hostility darkening her brow. 

“My Georgian is not that good,” he laughed. “Can you help me?” 

She slowed grudgingly, measuring him. Dean saw her considering whether to ignore him, her attention divided between him and some point over his right shoulder. Her eyes slid back to Dean. 

“Yes, I know English.” 

Dean relaxed, relief washing over him. “I’m a little lost. Do you live around here? I’m looking for someone.” He shifted his backpack out of the way and fished the scrap of paper from his pocket. Holding it out to her, she glanced skeptically at the paper without reading it, then back at him. 

She eyed him narrowly. “Who are you?” 

He suppressed the urge to ask her to just point him in the right direction. It occurred to him that he was a stranger approaching a young girl in a town that had little tolerance for foreigners and even less for foreigners with press passes. 

“I’m a journalist,” his smiled politely, carefully. “My name is Dean. Dean Winchester. And _you_ are?” 

“In a hurry.” She stepped around him and continued toward the apartment block. Dean stood frozen for a moment, paper fluttering uselessly between his fingers before he turned to follow her, if for no other reason than to give her a piece of his mind. He caught up to her and matched her pace. 

“Look. I don’t need you to take me anywhere, just point me in the right direction. I’m looking for a guy named Levan Cholokashvili. Some people call him ‘Lee’ for short.” 

The girl stopped at the entrance to one of the apartments. Aromatic cooking smells wafted from it, spilling into the street. She stared at the door, her jaw working, clenching and unclenching. Dean could see emotions battling for control in her face. He saw waves of vulnerability, panic and fear finally negotiate themselves into general exasperation. 

She kept her eyes on the door, but spoke at him. “Why are you looking for Lee?”

“So then, you _do_ know him?” Dean replied. 

“Yes,” she paused. “But he’s not here.” 

“No?” Dean said, confused. “Well, he should have been expecting me. Where does he live? I’ll wait until he comes back.” 

“I don’t know when he’ll be back, Dean Winchester. Again, why are you looking for him?” 

“Right. Look, I’ve had a long, long week and I’m not in the mood for twenty questions. I’m going now. You have a nice life, kiddo.” 

Dean turned on his heel, stalking away. He was getting a bad vibe from the young girl, and the idea of finding Lee on his own was looking better and better. 

“Wait!” she shouted after him. “I’m his daughter. I’m Lee’s daughter.”

 

* * *

They’d found refuge from the sweltering heat at a tiny kiosk near the town center. Dean bought them each sandwiches and soft drinks. Krissy did most of the eating, Dean most of the talking. They were squared off across from each other in plastic chairs around a rickety umbrella-sheltered table. Slaking his thirst on soda, he wished desperately for Russian Standard. In the time that they had  been sitting there, he had seen no more than a dozen people who had actually ventured from their homes to do any shopping or conduct any business. Among the shuttered, seemingly abandoned buildings, Georgian troops outnumbered civilians.

“I didn’t know Lee had a kid.” Dean pushed his half eaten sandwich over to the girl’s side of the table. 

Krissy spoke around a mouthful of turkey on wheat. “Yeah, well my dad doesn’t share a lot.” 

“You think telling a colleague that he has a teenaged daughter living in a hot zone is sharing a lot?” 

“It’s not relevant. Besides, what’s it to you? I’m okay.”

“You’re okay,” his brows drew together. “When was the last time you ate? I saw the way you polished off that sandwich, and the one before that--not to mention the rest of mine. I know what it is to be hungry, Krissy. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” 

She glared at him, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. “He left me money. He always calls to check in with me. He’ll call.” 

“Uh-huh,” He took a drink from his can. The coke had gone warm. “So when was the last time you heard anything?” 

“Almost a week. He’ll call," she repeated. “Things are weird right now, is all.”

“Jesus.” He muttered, pulling his Blackberry from his pocket. He did it more out of reflex than with a plan in mind. He’d already tried Lee’s number a few times, each going straight to voicemail.

“I went through his things,” Krissy offered. “I looked for phone numbers, contact people. I couldn’t find anything. I need to know more about his last job. I can find him on my own.” 

“Your dad is a facilitator. He helps people like me get in and out of places that are closed off to others and he’s good at what he does. He wouldn’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow.” 

“What were you meeting him for?” Her eyes narrowed. “Specifically?” 

It made him nervous to think that she thought that it was a good idea to strike out on her own to find him. Ignoring her question, he said “Look. I get it, Krissy. You’re a tough kid, but I’m not going to let you just head out of the city, to have god-knows-what happen.” 

“I can take care of myself,” she sniffed. “My dad believes in me, otherwise he would never have left.”

Dean didn’t respond, believing that she’d said it more to convince herself. He remembered being sixteen and feeling abandoned. He had been scared shitless but hid it under by being a smart ass. Looking at the pissed off teenager across the table, he was finding it hard to be on the defensive with her. She just wanted her dad back. 

A soldier had been dispatched to begin directing traffic. Dean noticed that the traffic lights had stopped working, flashing a red like a beacon. They had been working before. He recalled jaywalking earlier and seeing an adjacent light turn red. He had to jog across to avoid being hit by a car. He pulled his gaze back to an annoyed Krissy. 

“Would you like another drink?” 

“No. I’m good,” she was eyeing him suspiciously, but tried to be gracious. “Thanks.” 

“Your dad have any friends?” He asked.

“He has a friend in Tbilisi. He’s a photographer. If something’s happening, he’ll know about it.” 

“Awesome. Give me his name.” 

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “That’s not how this is going to work. We go together.” 

“Oh, Hell no,” he objected. “Not gonna happen. You stay here, and I’ll bring him back to you.” 

“Are you kidding? I hear shelling every night. Half the town’s been evacuated. I’m no less safe going with you to Tbilisi.” 

“Krissy, listen to me. I can’t just  take you along without your dad’s okay. You’re a minor..what are you twelve? Thirteen?” 

“I’ll be seventeen in October.” she said archly.

“Yeah, well I’m sure as hell not dragging a sixteen year old around the countryside with me. You’ll only slow me down.”

“What is it about me being able to take care of myself that you don’t understand? You want to find the photographer, you want to find my dad? We go together.”

“All right. We’ll do it your way.” Dean swiped his face with his hand. He was at the end of his rope with this kid.

“We go together?”

“I’m arranging a transport to Gori first thing in the morning. We’ll have a car to get us to Tbilisi from there. They’re gonna want details. How about a gesture of good faith? Maybe a street name? Neighborhood?” 

Krissy narrowed her eyes, circumspect. “If we’re leaving in the morning, you’ll need somewhere to crash. You can take dad’s place on the fold-out.”

“Shit.” He grumbled.

 

* * *

Dean and Krissy walked back to her flat, stopping along the way to pick up a few things to eat. At her place, Dean helped put the items away while Krissy made them the tea he bought. The tiny apartment was clean, but sparsely decorated with only a couple of pieces of furniture. There was no TV, no pictures hanging on the walls, there weren’t even any curtains on the window. The single clapboard cabinet in the kitchenette held mismatched dinnerware for two. Dean couldn’t even see any small appliances. Everything about the place said temporary.  
  
“I guess you and your dad have lived all over.” Dean said, looking out of the kitchen’s window. It was getting dark outside. The streets were empty save for a cat nosing at the door of an apartment across the street. The door opened a crack and the cat squeezed through.  
  
“Pretty much,” She pulled a variety of boxes out of a cupboard and chose a tea for herself. She turned, “Is Earl Grey okay?”  
  
“Whatever’s good.”  
  
Dean listened to her working busily. She moved comfortably around the kitchen area. It made him think that she probably cooked for herself whether Lee was around or not. He pictured all the times he stood at a stove, opening cans of soup for Sam until he could master sandwiches. Trial and error eventually made him into a decent cook.  
  
“I was born in Georgia, but I wouldn’t exactly call it home.” She had been staring at him as if she knew what he’d been thinking about.  
  
“You have relatives here?”  
  
Krissy joined him at the window, handing him one of the mugs of tea. She glanced wistfully out at the setting sun and then she sat down at the table. “An aunt in Batumi.”  
  
“What’s she do there?”  
  
Krissy looked up from her mug and fixed Dean with suspicious eyes. “She works as a housekeeper at the Radisson," she shifted in her seat, thinking. "No, actually I think it’s a gift shop in Kutaisi," Snapping her fingers as if the answer just came to her. "Oh yeah, I remember now. She works as a librarian in Gori--”  
  
“You’re funny.” Dean replied sourly.  
  
“And you’re obvious.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“Buying all that food,” Krissy gestured toward the pantry. “Sizing up our flat. All these questions about my family. I’m not stupid, and I’m not staying.”  
  
Dean regarded her over his steaming mug. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid.”  
  
Looking over the buildings, Dean could see the first flicker of starlight. It blinked, then blinked again in too much of a pattern to be celestial. He noticed that it was moving. Aircraft. He frowned, stepped away from the window and set his cup down on the table across the young girl. “So. What do you party animals do around here for fun? Clubbing? X Games?”  
  
“These days?” Krissy snorted. “We mostly fill our time trying not to get arrested. The rest of the time we spend trying not to die.”  
  
“And that’s fun?”  
  
“More fun than the alternative.”  
  
“Touché.”  
  
Dean walked through the little flat looking for any clue that might give him an idea of who might know Lee, or anything about him. He even excused himself to the bathroom to relieve himself and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. Nothing. Distant gun fire cracked a staccato outside of the bathroom window. Remembering light discipline, he snapped the light switch of next to the door, washing his hands by illumination coming in off the street. He dried his hands on jeans and felt blindly for the doorknob until he opened the door to the soft light of the living room. Walking out, he spied a backpack sitting underneath a table by the entrance to the flat. “This yours?”  
  
“That’s right. It’s my bug-out bag.”  
  
Dean nodded appreciatively. At least her dad had taught her to be prepared.  
  
“You speak english like a pro. Where did you learn?”  
  
“We lived in the States for a couple of years. I’m a product of the Sumner County, Kansas school system. At least two years worth.”  
  
“Do you go to school here?”  
  
“Nope. I pick up my education on the road when I can.”  
  
Krissy laughed at Dean knowingly, then gestured toward her room. “If you’re bored, there are books in my room. I know you’re dying to check it out in there anyway. Knock yourself out.”  
  
Krissy busied herself washing out the coffee mugs as Dean went to his backpack and pulled his PDA and charger out. “My battery is running low, but I need to make a call,” he held the plug out to her. “you mind?”  
  
“There’s an outlet on the countertop.” She replied, taking the charger and plugging it in.

 

* * *

  
He didn’t bother with the light switch. More jaundiced light poured through the bedroom window, throwing everything into sickly brown and black shadows. He could still see the thin outline of books. Piles of them. Two of the room’s four walls held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her bed jut out from one wall, presumably to make more room for more books. There was no desk or chair. No closet. Just her bed, and dozens of books. Two open suitcases full of clothing sat on the floor near the bed, the suggestion of clothing spilling over one of them. It looked like she lived out of them.  
  
Dean scrolled through his contacts and opened a line on his Blackberry.  
  
“Hey, Sammy. It’s me.”  
  
“Where are you, man? I’ve been leaving messages all over Beijing.”  
  
Dean negotiated the suitcases, making his way to the window. Street lights glowed orange on the cinderblock wall separating the adjacent apartment buildings. Of all the flats, only two or three showed signs of life in them. “Yeah, I know. I’m tracking down a story, and things are really heating up around here.”  
  
“It’s the summer Olympics,” Sam said. “How heated can it be?”  
  
“What? No, Sam. I’m in Georgia.”  
  
“Georgia?” Dean could hear the muffled voice in Sam’s background. Dean guessed that it was his girlfriend, Jess. “When’d you get back to the States?”  
  
“Not that Georgia. South Ossetia.”  
  
Sam’s end of the line went silent for a long, tense moment. Dean braced himself. Sam kept his voice even, which Dean knew was a giveaway to how angry he really was.  
  
“You couldn't pick up a phone to call me. You're that busy, huh?”  
  
“I called a week ago.” Dean protested.  
  
“A month. You called me a month ago, Dean.”  
  
“You sure?” he whistled between his teeth. “Sorry about that. You know how it gets when I'm working.”  
  
“No, not really. For me to know how it gets, you'd have to actually communicate with me, Dean. A call. An email. A frigging smoke signal.”

 

Dean thought he heard a faraway whistle. He pulled the phone away from his ear, concentrating. He felt the tiny thrum of a vibration beneath his feet. Miles away, but hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Was it getting closer? Sam made annoyed sounds into the phone. Dean spoke over him.  
  
“Listen. I need you to look something up for me. I’m trying to hunt down family for a Levan Cholokashvili,” Dean spelled it for him. “He also goes by Lee Chambers. He’s ethnically Georgian but americanized his name when he settled in the U.S. Search records in Kansas. Sumner County.”  
  
Another long pause. In the silence, he knew that Sam was struggling to not hang up, or at the very least not to start lecturing. Finally, he said, “And I’m doing this why?”  
  
“There’s a girl here. Her dad is my contact and he’s missing. I’m going to try to find him. Looks like  
he’s been gone a week and--”  
  
“A girl?” Sam snapped. “You’re running around in that tinderbox for a girl?  
  
“I told you, this is about my contact,” he didn’t want Sam to get the wrong impression. Once he found Lee, Krissy would no longer be an issue. He just didn’t feel right leaving her alone.  
  
“She’s a kid, Sam.”  
  
“I know that you’re all about going where the story takes you, but South Ossetia is becoming more dangerous by the day. Whatever you’re doing over there, drop it and get the next plane out of there.”  
  
“I know what I’m doing Sammy. Now focus. I need that intel.”  
  
“What intel?” Krissy stood nervously in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. He didn’t need to ask how long she had been standing there.  
  
“I’ll catch up with you later.” Sam was still talking when he killed the line.  
  
“You always sneak up on people like that?”  
  
“It’s not sneaking if it’s your own bedroom.”  
  
"Whatever." Dean gestured at the makeshift bookstore that was her room. "What gives?”  
  
She glowered, not buying his attempt to change the subject. She seemed to calculate, relaxing her features. He recognized the look. It was the same look Sam shot him when he was deciding whether or not to get into it with him. He had always been good at picking his battles. Krissy pulled him away from his memories as she stepped into the room.  
  
"I sell most of them online for extra money. My personal collection is right over there." She pointed to a relatively small stack near the head of her bed.  
  
Dean picked through the stack, looking at authors. Hemingway, Kerouac, Bukowski. A bit heavy for his tastes. He flipped through titles. There was a bit of everything. The Stone Diaries, A Thousand Years of Solitude, The Great Gatsby.  
  
He straightened up, tossing one of the books back onto the pile. "What, no Vonnegut?”

 

* * *

They sat on the sofa, manning opposite ends. Krissy placed hurricane lamps on the single coffee table in front of the sofa to keep the light low. She set bottles of water for each of them and Dean relaxed, drinking and reading from a dog-eared Louis L’amour novel while Krissy distracted herself with braiding strands of leather into an intricate design. Her weaving and twisting caught his attention.  
  
"What are you making?"  
  
“I make bracelets. Wrap, leather, friendship bracelets, like that. I sell them for extra money.”  
  
“Another side business?”  
  
“Keeps the lights on.”  
  
“Except the lights are --”  
  
“Figure of speech, Dean.”  
  
“That’s a lot of work for a sixteen year old.”  
  
“Like I said--”  
  
“--Right. You can handle it.”  
  
“He can be taught!” she declared.  
  
They sat that way for a time, half listening to the sounds of artillery outside the walls of the little apartment. Each time they heard the high pitched scream of a missile they lifted their heads, instinctively gauging the distance. He didn’t think that she was even aware that she was doing it. The thought made him sad. How much gunfire does a kid need to be exposed to in order to have that reaction. Too much.  
  
“You ever thought about what your life would be like with your aunt? Or maybe back in the U.S.?”  
  
“Sometimes, but my dad needs me. We make a good team.”  
  
“You could go to school. Use that big brain of yours for good.”  
  
“Like you?”  
  
“Well, not exactly. I’m a screw up. But you? You can do just about anything you want.”  
  
Krissy smirked as if unimpressed, but going back to his book, he could tell that she was considering his words. They sat like that for the next couple of hours, switching between listening to the sounds of conflict outside, small comfortable banter and absorbing themselves in their separate pastimes. At half past eleven, Krissy stood up from the sofa and stretched languidly.  
  
“You hungry? Want something more to drink?”  
  
“Nah. I’m good.”  
  
“Then I’m gonna try to sleep. I’ll need at least a couple of hours sleep before we head out.”  
  
“Me, too.”  
  
The young girl was turning to go, but hesitated. She looked back at Dean, considering him for a moment. She took a few steps back into the room, walking up to him and handing him the bracelet.  
  
“What’s this?”  
  
“What do you think, genius? It’s one of my soon-to-be world famous bracelets.” Dean stared at it dumbly. “Take it.” She urged, rattling it at him.  
  
He gently took it from her hand. It was beautiful. Three tightly braided leather thongs joined side by side by a flat silver clasp. Dean saw then that the real beauty lay in the work and care she put into making the braid perfect. It was simple, yet exquisite. He dismissed thoughts of Krissy being the little sister he never had. Keeping his tone as casual as possible, “This is real nice, Krissy. Thanks.”  
  
She took the bracelet and worked it around his wrist, clasping it closed and examining her work.  
“It is, isn’t it? I’m thinking that maybe with a little schooling--say, graphic design, maybe business-- I could make a real living out of it.”  
  
Dean smiled, admiring her work. Modeling his wrists for her, he extended his arm, pulling his hand into a fist. She looked at him, equal parts humor and second hand embarrassment. “Come on, give it up. You know you want to.” He waggled his fist at her.  
  
“What century is this?.” Annoyingly persistent he arched his brows, face splitting into a grin. She laughed, bumping his fist with hers. “We're so lame.”  
  
“You’re all right, kiddo.”

 

* * *

Dean waited five minutes after Krissy retired to her room for the night, then picked up his phone and stepped quietly out of the flat. He leaned against the wall just outside the door and listened to the thunderstorm sounds of artillery. He stood alone in the darkened corridor staring at the window at the end, light barely making its way through the filmy glass panes. He ignored the anxious tightening in his chest and speed dialed Sam’s number. Sam picked up after two rings. Dean didn’t wait for the normal exchange of pleasantries.  
  
“What you got?”  
  
“Not much,” Sam appeared to be reading. “Apparently he’s Georgian with a Russian passport. Widowed. Wife died in a car accident, drunk driver plowed into her. One kid, Kristina, aged fourteen. He was educated here in America, but has been working as an interpreter for journalists and various peacekeeping forces since 2003. Before that, he served in the military. Georgian.”  
  
“What about family?”  
  
“That’s it, Dean. That’s everything. No family to speak of. No friends to reference.”  
  
“She says that she has an aunt somewhere here.”  
  
“If she does, it’s news to me.  
  
“Thanks. I was going to leave the kid here and hope that her dad showed, but now I’m thinking I need to at least get her to Tbilisi.”  
  
“So the girl, is she Kristina?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It’s just the two of them, then family-wise’” he said. “Could there be a friend, maybe a neighbor that they’re close with?”  
  
“Maybe,” Dean said, thinking. “To tell you the truth, Krissy doesn’t seem to be the making friends and influencing people type.”  
  
“So, she’s a lot like you, then.” Sam groused.  
  
Dean laughed. “Actually, she reminds me of--”  
  
He was standing near the stairwell when he heard the commotion downstairs. There was muffled shouting one floor down. Dean jogged down the stairs, rounding the second landing in time to see a half dozen people running towards the exit. It was then that he noticed that the sounds outside were noticeably louder. The shelling. It was getting closer.  
  
“Sam, I gotta go. I need to make another call."

 

* * *

“Pam?” Dean said. “It’s been a while.”  
  
“Dean fucking Winchester,” the woman replied. “Gallagher tells me that you’re running down a story in Tskhinvali. I told him that he was full of shit because not even you could be that fucking stupid.”  
  
“So. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder after all.”  
  
“Absence don’t do shit, Winchester.”  
  
“But you haven’t hung up. That’s a good sign.”  
  
“I hate your guts, but I don’t want to see you dead,” she said. “What the fuck Dean? You’re up shit creek without a paddle. You know that, right?”  
  
“I’m getting that, Pam, and without my contact I’m kind of flying by the seat of my pants here.”  
  
“Who’s your guy?”  
  
“Chambers, but it looks like he’s disappeared.”  
  
“I know him. He’s pretty reliable. If he stood you up, he’s in trouble.”  
  
“Crap,” Dean said. “What about the president’s ceasefire?”  
  
“You really believe that there’s gonna be a ceasefire? Look out the window, babe. The Russian’s are lighting up that little berg tonight, and you are at ground zero.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“Finally, something we can agree on,” Pam smirked. “Okay, here’s the deal. Travel is a bitch. Nobody’s getting in or out of the city tonight. Zip. Nada. Tonight, what you’re gonna do is find yourself the deepest, darkest basement in the neighborhood and hunker your pretty ass down there till daybreak. Me and Andy will be working our contacts and--”  
  
“Working?”  
  
“Yeah, working,” she shot back. “We have to find somebody, hell, three or four somebody’s who are willing to travel through or circle around a half dozen roadblocks. That means calling in a lot of favors. Military favors.”  
  
“All right,” Dean said, thinking. “We’ll shelter in place till morning.”  
  
“We?” she shouted. “Who the fuck is we? I thought you said you couldn’t find--”  
  
“I have Lee’s teenaged daughter here. She’ll have to come with.”  
  
“No strays, Winchester,” she balked. “It’ll be all I can do to get you out of there. You can dick around playing nanny some other time.”  
  
“Pam, I’m not leaving without her. She’s just a kid.”  
  
“How easy do you think chaperoning a fucking girl scout through a warzone is gonna be?”  
  
“I don’t care. Krissy’s coming.”  
  
Pam was quiet. A cynical understanding filling the silence. Then, “Interesting.”  
  
Dean's temper flared, “I swear to God, Barnes…”  
  
“What happened to the _New & Improved _ Winchester? The one who doesn't get involved with the locals?”  
  
Dean could practically hear the air quotes through the phone.  
  
“I'm not involved. I'm practical. She's a child. Leaving her to fend for herself with what's about to go down would be nothing less than criminal.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“God dammit, Pamela, are you going to help us or not?”  
  
Pam sighed heavily into the phone. “You know, I was trying to remember why we were never able to make a go of it, and it hit me. It was because of that fucking hard head of yours.”  
  
“I love you too, Pam.”  
  
“Fuck you, Winchester.”  
  
Mortar explosion cut their conversation short, his phone clattering to the ground as the percussion tossed Dean against a wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a historical fiction based loosely on the events of the Russo-Georgian War of August 2008. Slight liberties were taken with regard to distances between towns and to a lesser extent the actual timeline. Although the war was fought as a part of a grander geopolitical conflict, I tried to steer away from political soap-boxing where my story focuses more on the humanitarian aspects of conflict from the point of view of an outsider.
> 
> If you found the Russo-Georgia War of 2008 as interesting as I did, you can find the real life account chronicled in a report released by [Human Rights Watch](https://www.hrw.org/news/2008/08/12/russia/georgia-investigate-civilian-deaths). Truth truly is stranger than fiction.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean picked up his phone and shoved it in his pocket while sprinting back up the stairs taking them two at a time. He threw open the door to the apartment with so much force that the knob embedded itself into the wall behind it. 

 

“Dean! I thought you left!” Krissy shouted. She was still dressed in her jeans and a t-shirt, bug-out bag slung over her shoulder. Dean grabbed his bag with one hand and swept the girl up close as they both spilled into the hallway running for the exit. Krissy grabbed his arm at the top of the stairs.

 

“We have to get out of here. If we can’t find a ride, we can at least get to the town center. We’ll find a way out from there.” Dean had to shout over the din to be heard.

 

“It’s too late!” Krissy said, panic clear in her voice. “We need to go to the basement. Everybody’s going to the basement!”

 

Having lived with the nightmare sounds of distant artillery for weeks, Krissy registered the whistling sound of an incoming shell before Dean did. He looked down at the young girl, catching her eyes. He looked into Krissy’s eyes and saw them fill with a terrible understanding, her eyes flickering from a warm brown to terror-blown black.

 

“Get down--” Krissy screamed, reaching up and fisting Dean’s jacket at the scruff of his neck. She yanked as hard as she could. He had eighty pounds on her, but she took him by surprise. The screaming sound of the shell landed just outside the apartment building.  The force of the blast sent Dean pinwheeling backwards down the stairs, Krissy still holding on tight. He could see the wall blasted out where his head had been seconds before. Shards of glass and chunks of concrete rained down on top of them as their crumpled forms crashed heavily at the bottom of the landing.

 

 

* * *

 

Dean did not think that he had been knocked unconscious in the blast, but the smell of smoke was thick. Whatever was burning had been burning for a while. Something dug at him as he struggled to think clearly. Something he was supposed to remember. He slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, glass and dust rolling out of his hair, off of his shoulders. The headache he was nursing was going to be a sonofabitch to get rid of, he thought dully. Panic flickered at the back of his mind like a spark in search of tinder. He should be remembering something. He should be afraid.

 

He pushed himself to his feet, grunting at the sharp pain in his back and ribs. Dean wobbled, unsteady on his feet. His shook his head trying to clear it. His eyes watering, lungs beginning to rebel. Looking down at the glass and rubble, the light from the street lamps outside illuminating--

 

_ Krissy _

 

Dean dropped down to the ground, ignoring the sting as glass bit through his jeans and into his knees. He dug frantically through the concrete and brick, looking for any sign of her. His hand caught in her hair. He grunted, relief and horror sending a surge of adrenaline through him. A dark, dusty ponytail stuck up through the debris, glass glittering in it like a diamond-encrusted tiara.

 

"Krissy." He croaked. He ran a shaky hand down her neck, trembling fingers feeling for a pulse underneath her jaw. At his touch, Krissy inhaled sharply, then groaned. Dean stroked the back of her head, unsure whether moving her was safe. There was a whistle and rumble of another shell, perhaps a block away this time. It propelled him into action. His heart thundering in his chest, he gathered the girl up into his arms half carrying, half stumbling down to the next floor. The corridor was deserted, debris and personal belongings strewn from one end to the other.

 

"Dean, wait," she croaked, eyes slowly fluttering open. She pulled weakly on his sleeve. "Let me down."

 

“I got you.”

 

“Let me try to walk. Please.”

 

Dean looked down at Krissy as if for the first time noticing that he was holding her. He set her down gently, letting her bear her own weight. The girl sucked in air painfully when she tried to stand on her right foot.

 

“I think I twisted it. Just a little.” She looked up at him apologetically.

 

Dean slung her arm around his neck and he supported her as they hobbled toward the rear of the building. Another shell. Close. It staggered them. He brought them up short at the threshold. The smoke was thinner here, but the building was on fire, it wasn’t safe. Neither was walking the streets looking for another place to shelter. His hand went reflexively to his coat pocket, gripping the Blackberry like a lifeline. He pulled it out and stared at it in disbelief as it fell to pieces in his hand. Then Dean remembered that in his panic, he had left their backpacks, and his spare phone upstairs in the rubble. It all was happening too fast. We are not going to survive this, he thought.

 

“You still got your phone?”

 

“What? Uh, yeah.” she reached for her pocket. “Shit. No, I must have dropped it.”

 

He eased Krissy down to the floor, propping her up into a sitting position the dark doorway.

 

“Sit tight, Krissy. I’m gonna go back for our packs.”

 

“Are you crazy?” She said, voice rising.

 

“We need a phone if we’re gonna get out of town. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

 

Krissy grabbed his arm roughly. “That’s what my dad said. And he didn’t come back.”

 

Dean caught Krissy’s chin in his hand and tilted her face up into the light. She was bleeding through a half dozen minor cuts from the shattered window. A cut along her hairline spilled a crimson path into her right eye. Swelling around the eye told him that she would have a shiner tomorrow.

 

_ Tomorrow. _ His throat tightened at the thought. 

 

He forced lightness into his voice. “I’ll be quick honey, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s backpack had an extra phone, money, his visa. He took a deep breath and ran full speed down the darkened smoky hallway, kicking objects out of the way, stumbling over others. He slowed a little to make the turn leading to the stairway. He couldn’t see anything through the smoke, he moved by what he could remember of the layout. Hands fumbling for the handrail, he felt his way up the stairs. He miscalculated the last steps and lurched forward, stumbling and skidding until at last he sprawled head first, landing on glass and fragments of brick.

 

“Fuck!” His ribs howled at him. The smoke was thick, acrid. Dean held his breath, pushing down panic. For just a moment he could see a ray of light. Smoke was billowing out of the building through the blast area. Blind, he swept his arms low and connected with something. He scrambled forward, gripping and releasing. His fingers landed on canvas. A backpack. Dean clutched it against his chest and tried to push forward once more. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. Lungs seizing, he involuntarily gulped in the smoke. 

 

Fire. It felt like fire in his lungs. Dean turned and ran.

 

He was almost there when his foot caught. He tripped and panic flared within him. Writhing and twisting wildly, his arms slashed at whatever had captured his boot. He was losing his ability to think rationally and low crawled instinctively, dragging whatever object wrapped itself around his leg. He couldn’t remember which way he had come from. He rolled to his feet and looked down, dimly aware that the second backpack was tangled around his legs.

 

Dean didn’t bother trying to negotiate the stairs and corridor, animalistic self-serving instinct told him that he wouldn’t make it. He was absolutely certain that he was going to die. He shouldered both packs and barrelled toward the blast site. Toward the light.

 

And he jumped.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Dean noticed was that he was not as dead as he thought he would be.

 

It hurt. A lot. He moved his arm and pain seared white-hot through his shoulder. He’d never dislocated it before, but he was absolutely sure that he had tonight. It had been nothing short of an act of God that he landed on the backpacks. He had tucked and rolled and now he could see what was left of Krissy’s and Lee’s apartment building--their neighborhood--it was in ruins and the city was burning.

 

Cradling his useless arm, he rolled slowly to his feet. He was disoriented. The dark, and the destruction had left his sense of direction decimated. He scrambled toward the wall of the building pressing his back there, looking around frantically for a safe place to be. Someplace not out in the open. Taking in great gulps of air he coughed and sputtered while his lungs convulsed. Fresh air was giving his oxygen deprived brain the ability to think again. He started to prioritize. He was hurt, but alive. That was good. He got out of the building. Even better. He needed to find Krissy, make sure she was okay. Then they needed to find shelter. Then they needed to get the fuck out of Dodge.

 

He slung the backpacks over his good shoulder and pushed off the wall. He had to get to Krissy. Turning left, he lumbered toward the side of the building. Another shell struck, one or two blocks away. He flinched, not quite able to ignore it but pushed forward, rounding the corner.

 

He saw Krissy’s eyes before he recognized her. Terrified, round, saucer-shaped. They were sprinting toward each other, and he couldn’t stop in time.They collided, Krissy taking the worst of it, bouncing off of him and landing hard on her butt. She looked up, blinking wildly at the his bulky silhouette. He tried to identify what he saw in them. Horror? For a flickering instant he felt sorry for her. But there was no time for that. Bombs were falling around them. He hauled her up her by the arm, clutching her close to his chest as he ran the gauntlet through parked cars and elm trees. He risked exposure, crossing the street toward one of the only apartment buildings that did not appear to be burning.

 

Dean ran. He pulled Krissy along, almost dragging her. She struggled against him as they entered  the building. He looked over at her to see her frustrated attempts to get out of his vise-like grip and get her feet on the ground. He met her angry and weary eyes long enough to let her down, allowing them both to run down the corridor. Their backpacks jostled noisily as they descended quickly down steep stairs. Hair on his arms prickled as the air became cool. The stairway darkened as he felt along the cold, damp concrete walls. They didn’t stop until they reached the  bottom steps of the basement.

A single remaining light flickered overhead, pale thin fluorescent light skimming over the eight residents. A few people struggled to their feet from wooden benches pushed against the walls. Others with no place to sit huddled on the floor. They all looked shaken, startled by Dean and Krissy barrelling in. The strangers stared at each other, no one completely sure if the other could be trusted. Dean held onto his arm, guarding it from the pain of trying to catch his breath. Finally,  an old woman broke the stalemate and beckoned them in, gently pulling Krissy aside and checking her wounds. Dean could make out a word here and there in Georgian.

“My God.”

“Madness” 

“Here, water. ” 

He sat down heavily on the earthen floor, his breath catching with the pain in his shoulder. The  old woman made her way over to him. She was round and squat with kind eyes. Dean was stricken with the image of her still wearing an apron as if she had just been working in her kitchen. She had silver hair pulled back into a neat chignon and a brightly colored kerchief tied over it to keep stray hairs from her face. Dean thought he smelled fresh baked bread as she placed gentle hands softly on top of his injured shoulder and began examining it. She murmured to him in Georgian, motioning him to lay down on the hard-packed dirt. Krissy came to his side when she saw him tense. 

“She’s saying that she can fix your arm.”

“What, is she a doctor?” 

“No. She’s says she has four sons.” 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

Krissy whispered reassuringly. “Just do what she says, Dean.”

Dean lay carefully down on his back, cradling his arm. The woman sat on the ground next to him and gently took his injured arm in her hands, holding his wrist and his bicep. Then she took her foot and braced it under his arm. Catching his eyes, she smiled encouragement and with a steady motion, she leaned back, pulling his arm out from the shoulder until they both heard the ball pop back into the socket. Pain arced down his shoulder to his toes like a javelin throw, leaving Dean panting raggedly.

 

He had not let himself be exhausted until now. He followed the dim light of a hurricane lamp. Two women helped sit him up, propping him between a set of discarded baker’s racks lest he tip over during sleep. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He drank deeply, savoring the liquid. Krissy appeared next to him fashioning a scrap of fabric into a sling. She dropped to one knee and carefully slipped it over his head and settled his arm comfortably against his chest. Her hand brushed against Dean’s bracelet and she stared at it guiltily.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry.” 

He looked at the girl, confused, his eyes growing heavier by the second. Light in the room was dimming, Krissy’s face swimming further out of focus with each blink. He tried to stay awake. He didn’t want to leave Krissy all alone, but he tumbled, falling into darkness as unconsciousness swallowed him.

 

* * *

 

 _The lake rippled, alive with the wind. Fat clouds mirrored the dark surface while cattail hugged the edges of the waterway, bunching up around the dock like unruly hair. Spruce. Pine. White Birch. They all sang, leaves and branches swaying to the music of a gentle breeze._  
  
_He was alone on the old dock. Time had created spaces between the wood planks making them look like old teeth. The weather-beaten deck chair pressed solidly into his back and butt. His shoulder felt fine, and Dean knew then that he was dreaming. Reclining stiffly with his hand wrapped around a cold bottle, he made the image of a man plucked from the hustle and bustle and dropped kicking and screaming into Paradise._  
  
_A green ice chest sat beside him, scuffs and dents giving away years of being lovingly battered. He didn’t need to open it to know that it was filled with chipped ice and a six-pack of Falstaff. A rod hung within an arm’s length of the chair, fishing line disappearing beneath the surface in a silky thread. Now and again clouds allowed sunlight to glint off of the rod and line like spun gold. It dipped and bowed with unseen and erratic activity from below. Big fish were biting. Steelhead, he was certain._  
  
_Dreams were like that. You just knew things. The contents of a locked box, or what swam beneath choppy water. A breeze stroked lightly at his chin and he reached up to scratch at it. The itchy beginnings of a beard._  
  
_“You can fish all day but you can’t pick up a phone and call your family?”_  
  
_Sam. He hadn’t been there before, but true to the nature of dreams, there he sat beside him matching chair and matching beer. He looked just like Dean remembered him; too tall, hair too long. He wore a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. Dean had missed him._  
  
_“I just called you.”_  
  
_“Sure, but only because you needed something.”_  
  
_“You sound like Mom.”_  
  
_“And how would you know that?” Sam dug at him, but there was no real heat in his words. “When was the last time you called her?”_  
  
_Sam’s words nettled, but Dean was able to let his irritation come and go. This was what he most liked about dreaming. It all felt muted. Emotions filtered through him like water through a sieve._  
  
_“Why are you here, Sam,” Dean sighed, watching the lake. “Because if you’re just here to bitch at me about my phone habits, you’re wasting both our time.”_  
  
_“You know why I'm here,” Sam replied, his tone a bit patronizing, like Dean should know better than to ask. “It’s time to stop running. Come home.”_  
  
_“I’m not running. I’m doing my job.”_  
  
_Sam said. “You think that we don’t need you. That I don’t need you”_  
  
_“Look, Sammy I don’t want to do this. Not right now.”_  
  
_“I know. But I’m here to give you a message.”_  
  
_“What are you--”_

_“Dean, when all else fails, help someone. When all else fails, love someone.”_

_“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”_  
  
_Sam didn't answer. Dean swallowed, surprised and embarrassed that he could feel his anger flaring. He wasn't mad at Sam, he was mad at himself. Maybe that's why it wasn't going away. He and Sam sat there for a time, looking out at the water._  
  
_The wind had grown cold. More clouds had gathered, dark, bruised things. It unsettled Dean, made him wary. His shoulder pinged. It didn’t hurt, but it was reminding him that there was somewhere else that he needed to be. There was other business he needed to attend to. Sam lifted his beer to his mouth, taking a long pull. Finally, he broke the silence._  
  
_“See you on the other side, Bro.”_  
  
_Dean opened his mouth to speak, something ill considered on the tip of his tongue. But as is the nature of dreams, when he turned to face his brother, Sam was gone. Tiny, cottony cattail spores hung in the air, floating where Sam's chair had sat._

 

* * *

 

“Wake up, young man,” Dean cracked open one eye. His world was blurry, as if submerged underwater. Sounds muted,  color drained. The face of the old woman slowly came into focus, her gentle eyes looking concerned, pitiable. She held a bottle out to him. “You must drink. Please.”

 

Dean opened the other eye, dutifully trying to lift his head, sit up and be something less than a source of worry, concern. His shoulder rebelled, the ache slowing his progress and a moan escaped before he could clamp down on it. He froze, breathing deeply through his nose, focusing on the other people in the room staring at him.

 

“Is everything okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah, we’re all right. Just bored and scared.” came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Krissy sitting on a bench, half in shadow, leg propped up. She arched an eyebrow. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m good,” Dean lied. 

“Well, you don’t look so good, Dean,” she replied. “You’re a mess, actually.” 

“Why, thank you, Krissy. You’re looking fabulous yourself.” 

“Yeah, well...” Krissy shrugged, a smile playing across her face. 

“How’s the ankle?” 

“Better.” 

“The woman who helped me. The one who fixed my arm. Where is she?”

“She’s taking care of one of the other men. I swear, I think she’s making bandages with fabric from her dress. She said that she’s worried about her cats. Her name’s Mrs. Jakobia.” 

Dean could feel the girl watching him. Twice she’d seem to be about to say something, but she bit it back. He stared at her openly, waiting. 

“What?” he asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“Not nothing, Krissy. Spit it out.” 

The girl looked away, sullen. After a moment, she turned to face him, her face showing the strain of the past few terrible hours. 

“I left you,” she confessed. 

Dean’s mind raced through all of the possible scenarios where that made sense. “What are you talking about?” 

The girl spoke quickly, as if she surprised herself with her own admission. “When you went upstairs for the packs. I knew you were in trouble. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I was going to run up to help. But, I got scared. So, I ran out. I left you there to--” 

“Stop it.” His voice was harsh, but when she looked at him he looked kind. 

“Huh?” 

“I said stop it. You didn’t leave me, Krissy.” 

“I did. I--” 

“Listen to me. You did the right thing. If you would have come after me, you would have been killed, and that’s a fact. There was no way out through the stairs. That’s why I jumped. I did what I had to do. You did what you had to do.” 

Krissy fell silent, thinking. Her eyes went to Dean, arm cradled in the makeshift sling. He was deep in thought too, distractedly twisting the bracelet around his wrist. The pad of his thumb worried the stiff leather. 

“When I ran into you. In front of the building?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t even know where I was going. I was so scared.” 

Dean nudged her with his foot, getting her attention. “We’re all scared, Krissy, but I’ll get you out of here. I promise.” 

She sat up a little straighter, and Dean could see her old posturing come back. “I’m not a baby, Dean.” 

“I know, you can take care of yourself, but I won’t leave you here. Do you understand?” 

Eyes wet and angry, she nodded looking away. She sniffled and brusquely wiped at her face with an arm.

 

Mrs. Jakobia stepped into the basement, face pale and stricken. She was speaking to the group with urgency, and Dean didn’t need to understand to pick up that there was trouble coming their way. Krissy stood, walking towards the old woman and it looked like she was trying to stop her from leaving again. 

“What’s happening?” Dean asked. 

“She’s saying that the shelling has stopped because ground troops are heading in. She says that she heard that they are detaining fighting aged men and boys. Most of the males in town have left to join the fighting, joined local militias, like her sons,” Krissy fidgeted, looking away from Dean, but not before he saw the worried expression playing across her face. “They say that the South Ossetian forces and Russians are pilfering and looting apartments. There are tanks. People who are trying to leave are being shot in the streets.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dean exhaled heavily. He looked around at the others, pushing himself up. “We’re sitting ducks down here.”

The old woman stood between Dean and Krissy. She argued with the girl while pointing at Dean. The reality of the situation was clear. 

“She says we’re safer down here than in our flats or in the street. No one will bother with a bunch of old women and small children.” 

“She can’t know that for sure. Ask her if she’s got somewhere else to go. Another village.”

“I did. She won’t leave, she says that this is her home. She waiting for her sons to come back.” 

“That’s not an option for us. It’s time to go, Krissy.” 

“Just listen, Dean--” 

“Look Krissy. We don’t have time for me to sugarcoat this. If soldiers come through here, they’re going to try to arrest me, and I ain’t gonna let that happen. We don’t get out of here right now, this is gonna end badly. For both of us.” 

She looked regretfully at the old woman as if wishing she could say something to change her mind. She shook her head. “Fine,” Krissy relented. “Let’s go, then.”

 

The basement had no windows, but the door leading to the entryway was open and Dean could see the blue-white light of dawn flowing into the room. Dean and Krissy stood at the basement’s entrance, watching for any movement on the street. It was hard for Dean to believe that not twenty four hours before, people were walking their dogs, strolling home from shopping down the same sidewalks. Now it was a grotesque street scene. As far as he could see there were burned out, bombed out ruins. Scorched cars, some still burning. He’d counted no less than six bodies that lay near doors, twisted. Mutilated. The remaining elderly, women and children of Telman Street were hiding in basements or what was left of their homes.

 

Dean pulled his extra cell phone from his pack and tried to get a signal. Nothing. He asked Krissy to try her phone from her emergency bag. No signal at all. He stuffed it into his pocket and working with his uninjured arm, began shoving bottles of water into the bag. He worked quickly, face grim.

“We need to get to Dzara Street. If we can get there, anywhere near the hospital, we can get a transport to Gori and from Gori to Tbilisi.” 

“Dzara is five blocks east. From there, the hospital is less than five kilometers south.” 

“Good,” Dean said, slinging the pack over his shoulder. “Easy peasy.”

Mrs. Jakobia went to Krissy, embracing her and pressing a package of what looked like pastries into her hand. The old woman nodded her head at Dean, the tiniest of smiles on her lips. She lifted her hand and waved him off.

  
Krissy tightened her grip on her own pack, following Dean to the doorway. “Something tells me that it’s not going to be a walk in the park.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was a relief to step outside of the building. The air inside was hot and fetid. Dean stepped onto Telman street first, shielding Krissy and motioning her to stay close to the apartment buildings walls. Tskhinvali was considered an urban area but birch and pine trees dominated neighborhoods. Dean found himself grateful that he could use them for cover as they picked their way from building to building. The quiet was unnerving, and Dean could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. It was likely frightened neighbors watching them from their hiding places, but the combination of silence and eyes on him made his gut clench.

 

The streets were empty of citizens, but he didn’t sense the morning quiet of a neighborhood in slumber. It was a place cold and devoid of life. He moved through the streets, Krissy close on his heels. His eyes shifted tensely from window to doorway to street corner. Twice while walking they ducked into a doorway to avoid a passing car or truck. The first time it happened, they watched a car full of men, armed yet without uniforms, patrolling the street for people.

 

The second time Dean and Krissy barely avoided being seen by a passing pickup. They pushed through a damaged building entry gate, but could not lock it behind themselves. The gate and fencing were thickly camouflaged, glacier ivy weaving its way up and around chain link providing them with enough cover to hide. The truck slowed, crawling to a stop so close that they could hear the truck’s occupants arguing. Dean guessed through their gestures that a couple of them wanted to search house to house while the others argued to move on. Krissy dropped to her knees crouching behind the gate and she began tearing through her pack. She had her hand thrust deep into the bag, searching until she pulled out a Glock 21 gripping the .45 pistol tightly in her fist.

 

Dean eyes widened, alarmed. “‘The hell?”

“They’re coming this way,” she hissed. She checked the magazine, expertly slapping it into the mag well and chambering a round. “I know what I’m doing. Stay back.”

“Give me that!” wresting the pistol out of her hands. “Are you insane?” Dean shoved Krissy back as she dove for the weapon. In doing so, he gasped at the sharp pain jolting through his shoulder almost bringing him to his knees. “God dammit, Krissy,” he snapped. “Cool your jets. They’re leaving.”

They listened as the sound of the retreating truck’s engine diminished, disappearing around the corner.

“What were you thinking?” Dean said. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“They have guns, Dean.”

“Yeah, guns. Plural. What were you gonna do? Shoot them all?”

“Yes,” She eyed the pistol, but didn’t make another grab for it. “We can't just sit here.”

“Just get us to Dzara, okay?” Dean checked the safety and tucked the pistol carefully into his waistband. “And try not to kill anybody on the way.”

“I want my weapon back.”

“Where’d you even get it?”

“My dad gave it to me. For protection.”

“Well, when we find your dad, I’ll give it to him and he can make the call.”

 

 

* * *

 

Tskhinvali city center was well planned. All secondary side streets led to Dzara Road, the main highway bisecting the town. From two blocks away, they could hear the din. The hiss of traffic and movement were a relief. Dean didn’t think it was too hopeful to think that they were evacuating the city.

“Almost there,” Krissy pointed in the direction of the busy thoroughfare. “Dzara’s one block that way.”

The pock marked street sign clearly indicated that they were in the right place, but it bore no resemblance to the street he drove in on a day ago. The fruit stand and the group of vendors was gone. He couldn’t see the place where he and Krissy shared sandwiches the day before. He met Krissy’s eyes briefly, sharing the realization that getting out of town might not be as easy as they thought. Entire buildings were gone, in their place were bombed out, smoking ruins. A pall of black smoke and dust lay over the city center like a thundercloud, blue sky still at the periphery, just out of reach.

 

The sidewalks were littered with rubble and glass from shattered windows. Jeeps, trucks and tanks outnumbered civilian cars. The cityscape was familiar to Dean--he had covered civil unrest before--still, the sights and sounds made him shudder. He picked up the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire, He swung around, ears pricking to pinpoint the location. It was coming from the other side of the town square. Krissy tapped his shoulder, pulling his attention away.

“Over there,” Krissy seemed to relax at seeing something she recognized. “There’s a parking area for marshrutkas.”

"What the hell are marsh--"

"Mini-vans. They're public transport. One of the drivers can get us out of town."

The shooting was closer now. The pop-pop-pop, coming in controlled bursts. Dean jerked his head up as a successive barrage came from the second story of a shop just over his shoulder. The storefront window exploded with the impact debris flying so fast that he never saw what had been displayed there. In the next instant, Krissy jogged ahead, stepping from the shelter of the tree-lined sidewalks and onto the road before Dean could pull her back. He didn’t see where the shot came from, he just heard the snapping sound of it impacting and sending Krissy pirouetting back at him. Her ankle, still unsteady and sore crumpled under her and she went down in front of him. Krissy turned her head toward him questioningly. She didn’t even know what hit her.

 

 

* * *

 

Dean dove in her direction, not knowing if he was covering her or dragging her out of the line of fire. He had the webbing of her backpack bunched in his good hand, hauling her out of the street, grunting and swearing through gritted teeth. The air around them was being sprayed with gunfire. Dean crabbed backwards, only dimly aware that he and Krissy had run out of sidewalk. Momentum sent them tumbling over a street barrier, kicking up a cloud of dirt, weeds and pine needles until landing in a heap at the bottom of a ditch. He thankfully came to rest on his uninjured side, Krissy sprawled on top of him. She immediately tried to untangle herself, but Dean was still holding her pack.

“Stay put, Krissy.” Dean said. He held her down, frantically feeling for a bullet wound. He couldn’t find any blood. Hauling her pack off, he saw it. There was a small entry hole through one pocket, and a slightly larger exit hole on the other side of the pack. He looked incredulously at Krissy, realizing that the round narrowly missed injuring her.

They hid in the scrub and bushes of the ditch, listening to the tanks rolling down Dzara. After a moment, they clamored up high enough on the embankment to where they could see the street. Dean pulled his camera out of his bag. He aimed at the chaos, snapping images. Krissy watched in horror as car after car, each full of families trying to merge onto the road leading out of town only to be flagged down and pulled from their cars. Some were being detained in groups, some loaded onto trucks. Soldiers, militia--they couldn’t even be sure who was who anymore. Dean tried more than once to pull Krissy away from the frightening scene but she wouldn’t have it, struggling out of his grasp and watching wide-eyed.

 

A car rolled into view and reached to within a few feet of where they hid on the embankment. The family inside the car watched a soldier with a rocket launcher taking aim at them. The family spilled from the vehicle; an older man, a pretty young woman and a small boy. Recognition send a chill down Dean’s spine as he eyed them bolting across the road and jumping into the ditch nearby. They were from the bus. It was the woman and little boy with the toy gun. The rocket slammed into car, the impact lifting the sedan and transforming hunks of car parts into flying projectiles. Dean and Krissy took cover, shielding their heads against the heat of the blast, twisted wreckage raining heavily around them.

 

Dean yelled for Krissy to run while grabbing her hand, ignoring the pain flaring in his shoulder. She let him yank her to her feet, hand grasped on her pack in a death grip, and then they were up and moving. He cast a glance at the remains of the exploded car. They were on Dzara Road and people were screaming, frantically yelling, some in panic, some shouting orders. He hauled Krissy through the line of cars and for an inexplicable moment, she pulled back, mumbling that they needed to go back. She motioned aimlessly and looked back toward the ditch. It was on fire, flames licking up and over the embankment. Dean ignored her, pulling her along in with a vise-like grip and he was in a dead run, rushing through the sound of bullets as they snapped past. Artillery whistled nearby, filling his ears until all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the roar of bombs falling.

Krissy appeared to be in pain but she kept running. Their shoes crunched over rubble and metal fragments and clothing and chunks of something bloody that Dean’s brain refused to identify. He looked up long enough to see that they were heading toward the marshrutka, gleaming shiny and yellow in the disarray of the street.

“Almost there, Krissy,” Dean huffed, breathing labored. “Are you with me?”

The girl nodded, breaths coming in ragged bursts. They reached the van’s door but it was empty,  the door locked. Dean banged on it with his fists and threw a kick at it, howling in frustration. He pulled the young girl around to the far side of the vehicle hoping to place a barrier between them and the shooting. Leaning heavily against the bus he looked around wildly, figuring out the next move. He reached up, distractedly pushing his fingers through dirty, sweaty hair. It stood up in comical spikes.Turning, Krissy caught sight of him and laughed shrilly, a bubbling combination of humor and hysteria. She slapped a hand across her mouth to smother it, moving next to Dean. Their backs pressed hard against the bus, Krissy closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself.

They had to get away from the main street. Dean pushed away, letting his bag slide off his shoulder, landing roughly on the ground. He winced, straightening his arm and pulling the sling over his head. He hefted his bag back up and slipped it onto both shoulders settling it against his back while plucking Krissy’s bag from her hand and throwing it over his good arm. He had abandoned conversation, choosing to merely haul Krissy along. She tried to protest, but he was beyond negotiation. He yanked the pistol from his waistband and charged down the embankment, Krissy in tow.

“To the treeline, Krissy,” Dean shouted. “Don’t stop until we’re in the trees, no matter what. You hear me?”

“Got it.” she promised.

 

Despite the weakness in her ankle, Krissy sprinted through the tall yellowed grass. The field was littered with mortar shells and unexploded munitions. They set their sights on the treeline and hauled ass, sidestepping and bounding over sticks, twigs and debris. Dean streaked heedless through clouds of gnats, feet pounding the dusty trail. They were leaving the sounds of chaos behind them, pushing forward, terrified that they’d be seen and the next hail of bullets would be aimed at them. Dean’s lungs burned with the exertion, the distance seeming impossibly far away. He waited for the thud of a bullet to tear into him, ripping through flesh and organs. Krissy tried to wrest her hand from Dean to run faster, but he kept her in his grip afraid to lose track of her. She promised him that she’d keep running. If he fell, if he got hit, she had to keep running.

They had just reached the shade of the tall pine trees when they were thrown off their feet by the percussion of a mortar bomb landing behind them. Krissy lay sprawled in the dirt, dazed and gasping for breath. She rolled over painfully, chest heaving, and stared past Dean at the sky. He went down on one knee intending to pull her to her feet but he couldn’t catch his breath. He collapsed next to her and together they looked up to see a deep, perfect cornflower blue.The ground was warm beneath them and Dean heard the buzz of dozens of busy insects. If they weren’t in the middle of a war, he thought, it would be the kind of day where he could drift off to sleep, cool drink nearby, earbuds gently piping in music from his favorite playlist. He could almost feel the iPod in his hand. Dean sat up, the sounds of muffled distress pulling him back into reality. Krissy was on her knees, being quietly sick.

He rolled onto his knees, kneeling next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey.”

She squinted against the sunshine, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. She blinked at him for a confused second, then her eyes cleared, recognition dawning. “Hey.”

He tried keep relief out of his voice as he shouldered both packs, motioning for her to stay low. “Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.”

 

 

* * *

 

“Drink.” Dean demanded, thrusting a bottle of water into her hand.

“Still not thirsty, Dean.”

“Don’t make me force you.”

“Fine,” she said, uncapping the bottle and upending it into her mouth. “Happy?”

“I’m tickled pink.” He took the bottle from her, drinking what remained. “How’s the ankle? You need to take a knee?”

“No, all I need is to put as many miles between us and Tskhinvali as possible.” Krissy said, picking her way carefully through the wooded area. “This ride we’re getting to Gori. Does he have papers? There’s bound to be checkpoints up everywhere now.”

“Andy’s good. We meet him at the rendezvous point, and he’ll take care of the rest.”

They had been hiking parallel to the main road, zigzagging through endless evergreen trees avoiding checkpoints set up by local militia, Georgian forces and South Ossetian troops. Dean was wary of all of them. There didn’t seem to be one set of rules, and any protocol that was established was changing minute to minute. It was best to stay out of everyone’s way and trust no one save the few friends that he’d dealt with before.

 

As Krissy and Dean worked their way to the edge of town, Dean kept a close watch on the girl. She’d been through more horror in the last few days than most people would experience in a lifetime, yet she soldiered on. He could tell that she was afraid, hell, she’d be crazy not to be, but she didn’t let it stop her. Dean found himself being both fiercely protective and incredibly proud of her.

“Talk to me.” he said.

“About what?”

“Whatever,” his eyes roamed the periphery, looking for movement. “Just...talk.”

She seemed to think for a moment. “Where do you know Andy from?”

“We’ve worked together a few times. Turkey, Ukraine, Moscow.”

“You two just travel around from country to country looking for wars to report on?”

“Not always wars. It’s important to not take sides politically. It’s mostly looking at it from a humanitarian perspective. If we can bring attention to what’s happening, it might help save a few people.”

“And do you?”

“Save people? Not always. When I started this, I thought that if people only knew that others suffered they’d feel--compelled, I guess--they wouldn’t turn a blind eye.”

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

Dean chuckled. “It sounds like you keep a little Edmund Burke stashed in that pile of books.”

Krissy shrugged noncommittally and slowed to a stop, finding a patch of wild strawberries growing in a sunny area on the forest floor. Dean unslung his pack and took out one of his cameras. A long strand of hair had escaped from Krissy’s pony tail. She squatted down and plucked a handful, head bent over the berries. The lock of hair caught in the breeze and swung back and forth across her cheek. Krissy concentrated, carefully pinching off the stems. Dean sighted and held the shutter button down, taking a series of images. She lifted her head at the sound and smirked at him. She transferred half of the berries to one hand, offering him a palmful. He took them, nodding gratefully.

“Bringing injustice out into the open doesn’t always stop it. But that’s no reason to give up trying. We all have an obligation to take care of each other.” he said, slipping the camera back into his pack.

“I can take care of myself,” she said. “But I see your point. It’s what good people do. You’re like my dad. You make being kind look so easy.”

He looked around as if she was talking to someone beside him. “Me?”  He snorted.

“Yeah, you.  I sure as hell wouldn’t travel half way across the world for the troubles of some schlub who didn’t know me from Adam.”

“You helped me,” he corrected. “When I stopped you on the street.  It took you a minute, but you came around.”

Her eyes darkened at the memory. “That was different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. There was something about your face,” she gave him the hint of a wicked smile. “You looked like a lost puppy.”

“Did I?”  That surprised him. As he remembered, he thought the same thing about her.  An angry, hungry, lost puppy. He guiltily considered how much he disliked her on that first meeting. “You’ve gotten me all wrong, Krissy. Compassion does not come naturally to me.”

“If you say so.”

“No, I’m serious. You talk to people, get to know them and you learn how much you have in common.”

“Or you can learn that they suck.”

“Maybe.  But most people don’t suck.”

“You’re kidding me. You’ve made a career of literally traveling from one war-torn country to another and you actually believe that?”

“I believe that people are worth getting to know. Everything is not black and white.”

“If you say ‘life is complicated’, I swear to God I’m gonna scream.”

“All right. I won’t say it.” he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself, all right?  


They walked in silence for a while, hearing muffled sounds of bombs and gunfire mixed in with birdsong and cicadas. In the relative quiet, Dean relaxed a notch. He watched Krissy, her face flushed with sun and exertion as she tracked the path of a lizard. It appeared at the base of a pine tree, a rock with legs scuttling through the dry grass. She looked to be finding a moment of escape in following the reptile. It climbed up a craggy rock and perched on its surface, soaking in the sunshine. She spoke then, in a whisper.

“Yesterday, you said you were a screw up. How?”

“You know, typical stuff,” he replied. “Getting in with a bad crowd. Making bad decisions. I was selfish.”

She eyed him curiously, as if seeing something new and interesting. “What changed?”

“My folks divorced. Me and Sam got lost in the shuffle. I didn’t have a lot of time to get into trouble after that.”

“You took care of him? By yourself?”

“Pretty much. He’s was a good kid, though. Smart as hell."

“And he’s a lawyer now. Does he help people, too?”

“Sam? Definitely. He does pro bono work for asylum seekers.”

“You, Sam. Andy. So what you’re saying is when you put others first, everyone benefits.”

He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. “Shit, kid. I don’t know what I’m saying,” he shook his head and laughed. There was a bit of an edge it. “The world is big and it needs you. Just make yourself useful.”

 

* * *

 

  
They walked another thirty minutes, Dean alternating between keen watchfulness and exhaustion-induced boredom. He took pictures, he checked for cell phone coverage. He kept one eye on Krissy. And they walked.

The evergreens grew dense, then thinned, sunshine playing in and out of the forest, dappling the grass and the dusty pathway. They reached a clearing wide enough for Dean to see that the position of the sun gave them another two or three hours before dusk. They listened to the buzz of insects and the low warbling of birds, accepting that all was quiet, and he hoped that they had not wandered from the main road. A part of him didn’t like the idea of moving closer to the sounds of artillery, but finding themselves lost without enough food or water would have been worse. Krissy had gone quiet  the last few minutes, and he had begun to worry about her.

“You need to take a break?”  


“No, I’m good.”

  
“You sure, because--”

  
“I’m fine.”

  
“All right.” he said doubtfully.

  
Krissy stumbled over her feet and Dean’s hand shot out, steadying her. He gave her a look of reproach and she jerked out of his grasp, righting herself. He watched her hobble a few more feet, wincing every time she bore weight on her injury. She looked longingly around the clearing, biting at her lip.

“Maybe we can stop for a second,” she hedged. “Re-wrap it or something.”

  
Krissy sat propped against a tree, leg gingerly outstretched. Dean unslung his pack and carefully cradled her ankle. Slipping off her sneaker, he began unwrapping the bandage. He could sense Krissy studying him and it having been years since he had to patch someone up, he felt like a bull in a china shop.

  
“Pretty painful, huh?” he said. He cringed inwardly at the swelling. It had to hurt.

  
“Yeah, hurts like a son-of-a--”

  
“You’re right. It just needs re-wrapping.” He cut across her stream of expletives, not sure why he was bothered with her swearing. After all they’d been through, ruining this last vestige of innocence seemed to be more than he could stand, apparently. He pushed the sack at her. She took it, wordlessly rummaging through it until she retrieved the pills from a side pocket. Krissy considered him, paying attention to the care he was using. In spite of her ankle, she quirked a playful smile, nudging him with her other foot.

“You’re a little bit of a throwback, aren’t you?”

“I know I’m going to regret this,” he answered, eyes flickering up and seeing the playfulness in her eyes. “What do you mean by throwback?”

“You know, acting all _big-brother_ like, caring for people. You’ve probably never told a lie in your life.”

He huffed a laugh. “Throwbacks don’t lie?”

“No, they don't. They’re honest and brave. Chivalrous. Shit like that.”

“Couple of things,” he continued wrapping, trying not to sound as old as he was feeling. “First, I’m definitely not a throwback. Second, I’m not especially honest or brave. I’m just here Krissy, trying to deal.” He slipped her shoe back on, tying it expertly. “Third? Language.”

“See what I mean?” she scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re a do-gooder. I could never be like you.”

“Let’s hope not. The world’s got its hands full with one Dean Winchester. What we need now is one really kickass Krissy Chambers.”

She took her pain reliever, washing it down with the dregs from a water bottle. She regarded him for a moment. “What would you be doing if you weren’t doing this?”

“That’s easy. I'd be having a cold one with my brother on the lake.”

“No, the thing you do for a living,” she pressed. “Maybe you’d be like Indiana Jones, working at a dusty old university when you weren’t out saving the world.”

“You’re funny, kiddo.” he laughed. “Hey, you could be my Short Round.”

Unexpectedly, she held his gaze. “I think I’m more of a Willie.”

 

Nonplussed, he picked up on the implication and blushed furiously. He could run through burning buildings, jump out of windows, even handle getting shot at, but he absolutely could not handle being flirted at by a sixteen year girl.

“That’s...that’s...um-” he stammered, lost between shutting down whatever this was, and not making it any more awkward than necessary.

“C’mon, don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut against the headache developing behind them. “No, I wasn’t,” he was indignant, but there was a slight pleading tone to his voice. “And that’s not how a throwback would act.”

“But you’re no throwback, remember?”

She was trying to get under his skin. He knew it, but he couldn’t quell the uneasy way she was making him feel. They were literally running for their lives. He wondered if this was how she was trying to process what was happening but he was no head shrinker. He had no clue what to do. He just knew what he _wasn’t_ going to do. Her gaze bored into him, a challenge making her eyes appear hard. She made him think of a toddler playing with a box full of matchsticks. Dean sighed, easing her foot back down into the dust, then stood. His knees popped loudly and Krissy smothered a laugh.

“You okay there, old man?”

“Why don't we talk about something else?”

At that, Krissy's smile tightened a little, revealing strained bravado. Her look cooled for a beat, then she schooled her features into teenaged indifference.

“Listen, Krissy--”

“I’m just kidding, Dean.” She sat up straight, giving him a conciliatory smirk. “Can’t you take a joke?”

Dean wasn’t quite sure she meant it to be a joke. “Let’s get going. We’re burning daylight here.”

She mock saluted him, then held her hand out, gesturing for his help. She slung her pack on and took a couple of tentative steps. Satisfied, she followed Dean back into the thicket.

“Let’s talk about books, then.” she said.

Relieved at the change of subject, Dean brightened. “Sure. What are you reading now?”

“Lolita.”

“Damn it, Krissy.”

Her soft laughter could be heard among the birds and insects.

 

* * *

 

They continued the way south, sunshine lancing sideways through the trees. Dean grieved the loss of his favorite pair of shades, having crushed them in his jump from the apartment building. The weather was cooling with the setting of the sun though, and for that he was grateful. He watched Krissy, the slump in her shoulders, the way her hair clung to her face and neck in damp ringlets. She was drained but not complaining about it. Each she caught his eye he saw a little more fatigue, more doubt and uncertainty. He wished that Sam was here. He’d know exactly what to say to make her feel better.  

 

“Have you talked to your brother?” she spoke without turning to look at him. Good thing. He was beginning to think that she could read his mind.  
  
“Not yet. Still no signal.” he didn’t bother pointing out that she had not left his sight since the fire. She’d be the first to know if he talked to Sam.   
  
The trail wound deep into the woods and they walked side-by-side, angling off the trail and through the trees just far enough into the treeline as to avoid to chaos of the city.   
  
”The last time I talked to my dad, we fought. I can't remember what it was about.” she laughed a little. “I was pissed, though.”   
  
“Maybe it was over something small.”   
  
She thought for a moment. “It must have been. If it was something big, I'd remember, right?”   
  
Dean didn’t know. For his part, until recently he and Sam hadn’t exactly been on terms. There was no shouting match, but Dean had distanced himself after Sam and Jess settled into their lives together. He didn’t begrudge them their happiness, he just didn’t feel like he had a place with them. And Sam sure as hell didn’t need him. Not anymore. Dean pulled his phone from his pocket once more. No service. Sam was probably sleeping anyway.   
  
“It must be weird,” she said. “It's been me and my dad for as long as I can remember. I can't picture what it'd be like to have a brother or sister.”   
  
Dean’s smile was odd. “I'm older, but it feels like he's always been there.”   
  
“What kinds of things do brothers talk about?”   
  
“Well, we don't talk about stupid crap like feelings, if that's what you're asking.”   
  
“It wasn't, but since you brought it up…”   
  
“Yeah, no. It's not like that.” Dean tried to put his thoughts into words. “Most of the time we’re just there for each other. Even if we are a thousand miles apart.” _Literally_ , Dean thought to himself.   
  
“So, feelings, then.” she laughed.   
  
“Touche.”   
  
“Will you go back to see him?”

  
“I don't know. He has his own thing going. I think about it sometimes,” he smiled. “He and Jess are kind of helpless without me.”   
  
“I’m sure--”   


He was mid-grin, watching Krissy for what was certain to be a snarky comeback when she trailed off, looking at a point just beyond his shoulder, her face draining of all color. He turned,curiously following her line of sight.

The gunman blocked the trail where it branched back into the city, his rifle steady. He waited for them, elbows pulled in with one hand lightly cradling the handguard, stock nestled securely into the bundle of hard muscle beneath his shoulder blade. He wore a baseball cap. A grungy gray sweat-stained thing, the permanently smudged bill canted high on his forehead. He wouldn’t be able to line them in his sights with it pulled too low, Dean thought. For Dean it wasn’t the sight of the gunman that sent a surge of adrenaline through him, it was the sound. The barely perceptible click of the rifle’s safety button as the man disengaged it.

He shouted at them, the staccato tirade too fast for Dean to make any sense of it. Krissy’s hands went up in surrender and Dean quickly followed suit.

“Wait a minute,” Dean soothed, voice steadier than he felt. “There’s no problem here.”

Of course, there _was_ a problem. It was nearly impossible to remember what little Russian he knew with a gun pointed in his face. Krissy took a small step from behind him, making herself visible to the gunman. Her Russian was flawless. She spoke quickly, hands still up, gesturing toward Dean with her eyes.

She translated for Dean, “I told him that you are my uncle. Visiting from America. I told him that we need to get to the hospital.”

The gunman bristled, silencing her with a growl. He kept the weapon trained on Dean, rifle leveled at his chest now. From what Dean could gather, either the man wasn’t buying it, or didn’t care.The tension in her voice raised it a full octave.

“He says that we’re not going anywhere. He’s been told to take custody of anyone he finds in the forest. He’s to have them processed for arrest.”

Dean tore his eyes from the gunman, panic rising in his tone. “Arrest? You kidding me?” He glared at him. “We've done nothing wrong. This is bullshit.”

Krissy paled. “They’ve been doing this for weeks. They can do whatever they want.” Her voice dropped lower, and Dean saw her expression settle into something darkly resolute. “We can’t let him arrest us.”

The gunman barked another demand, advancing a step closer. He kept his gun trained on Dean, clearly making him out to be the greater threat, but he kept snatching looks at Krissy. Obsidian eyes, sliding from Dean back to Krissy, studying her. It touched something dark and unfathomable in Dean and filled him with dread. With Fear. Not of what the gunman might do to them, but what he might do to the gunman. He stole a glance at Krissy. Her eyes were on him. All the levity had left them. They were calculating. Deciding.

The gunman was sweating, an oily sheen plastering a clump of dark hair to his forehead. He grinned, the tip of his tongue snaking over chapped lips. It was a small, trifling gesture, but the man kept his eyes on Krissy, roaming. Elevator eyes. He remembered that that was what Sam used to call it. In the woods in the last moment of a sun-baked summer afternoon, a chill ran down Dean’s spine. He was watching the gunman. The gunman was watching Krissy.

Krissy was watching Dean.

By the time Dean registered the movement of Krissy stepping into his space he knew he was too late. She hip-checked him off his feet, sending him stumbling to regain his footing. He recovered, reaching back into his waistband. He felt a cool, breezy emptiness where the Glock had been. It wasn't so much her speed as the sheer reckless abandon of her. She came down hard to one knee, bracing herself and in one fluid motion sighted the Glock and fired into the man once. Twice. The bullet’s loud report sent dozens of birds into manic flight as the gunman crumpled into a heap, rifle clattering butt-end first into the dirt. Krissy remained crouched, stock-still, pistol in a white knuckled grip. Only her chest moved, heaving like she’d just run a mile.

Dean charged over, skidding to a stop inches from barreling into her. She didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him at all.

“Krissy.”

No response. She just stared into the middle distance, face half in shadow.

“Krissy. We need to go, okay?” He moved carefully, pulling the pistol from her grasp. Her hands were cold. He clamped a hand under her arm. Glassy-eyed, she let him lift her to her feet.

“Did you see that?” she asked, her voice reedy, face splitting into a grin too garish and overblown to be nothing other than rising hysteria. “Did you see what I did, Dean? That. Was. Awesome!”

“No, not awesome,” he was squeezing her arm too tightly, anger, worry and yes, a little fear making him reluctant to let her go. “Definitely not awesome.”

The fierce urge to protect her was replaced with an anger that he couldn’t entirely understand. He pulled her over to the gunman, standing over him. Dean shoved her forward, his heart slugging against his ribs. He made her look, made her see what she had done. He didn’t know if it was the right thing to do, but she was acting like it wasn’t real. Like she was playing a first person shooter. She was acting--

He couldn’t finish the thought. She was okay. She was going to be okay. He just needed to get her to safety. For one incongruous moment he saw an image in his mind’s eye of dragging a puppy to the scene of a mess he’d made. _Bad. Bad puppy._ Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the picture. Krissy stood silently next him, staring at the body. Her breathing appeared normal again and her eyes had lost that creepy axe murderer quality. She was in shock, that was all.

 _That was all_. When had that become normal?

The body lay clad in stylishly faded and torn jeans covered in a patina of dust and pollen. His baseball cap landed a foot away. Somehow it looked cleaner wedged in the tall yellowed grass. Dean remembered the name of the trefoil logo he had been staring at on the cap less than five minutes before. Adidas. His mind had fastened onto that fact.The gunman had been wearing a sweatshirt, sleeves cut off to accommodate the summer heat. Bullet holes painted crimson eyes into his shirt just to the left of his breastbone, the jersey fabric wicking an expanding circle of gore across his chest. Krissy sniffed, rubbing her nose. Without a word, she turned, picked up her backpack and set off along the darkening and crooked trail..

  


They moved quickly now, in troubled, uneasy silence. Dean didn’t trust himself to say anything. They argued briefly about whether to take the dead man’s rifle, but she abandoned the idea when Dean threatened to shoot her with it. He was almost sure he hadn’t meant it. He kept his eyes on the path and his ears open, focusing on the sounds of the forest. Concentrating on the feel of a layer of sweat cooling on his forearms. He didn’t want to think about how this was supposed to be a simple interview with a few villagers. Didn’t want to think about the fact that they had no idea if they had a way to Tbilisi once they reached the hospital.

Didn’t want to think about how they’d just left a man dead in their wake.

Mostly he didn’t want to think about how he apparently had an unapologetic and trigger-happy teenager with something to prove on his hands. He couldn’t keep her safe if he couldn’t get her to listen to him. The situation was bad enough without her being a loose cannon. _You’re doing a great job with not thinking about this, Dean-o_ \--

“Dean.”

He didn’t answer. He looked up at the canopy of trees. He caught snatches of sky between the shimmering green. Cerulean blue skies scattered into a coral horizon. It would be getting dark soon. They needed to get out of here.

“Dean,” she was staring at him with peculiar intensity. “You okay?”

Better to keep his answers down to single syllables. “Yeah.”

“Are you mad at me?”

He leveled her a look. “What do you think?” he slowed, hand going to his waistband. There was movement to their left, but another second revealed the back end of a small deer. He exhaled. “What you did back there was beyond stupid.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” she said woodenly.

“You can’t just...” he trailed off. “Are you serious? Do you mean that?”

“No. I really don’t.”

He studied her, blatant curiosity outweighing his anger. “What’s the matter with you, Krissy?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me. I'm good.”

“You just shot a man dead.”

“But he was a bad man,” she said. “And I just saved your bacon. You're welcome.”

“You should have let me handle it.”

“Why? What did I do that was so wrong?”

“What if he managed to get the gun away from you? What if you missed? You could have been killed, Krissy. How can you not understand that?”

“No, I get it. What you don’t understand, Dean, is that I’m not going to stand by and just let shit--sorry-- stuff just happen to me. I saw my chance and took it, and because I acted, you and I are still alive.”

The mix of adrenaline and bile made him forget his resolve to stay in control of his emotions. He stalked up to her, getting into her face, allowing his contempt to drip poisonously from each word. “You are a wrecking ball.”

She doubled down. “Yeah? Well, better a wrecking ball than someone,” she cast about, looking for the perfect insult. “Someone with a hero complex.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I don’t need saving, and once again, I don't need you treating me like I’m a frigging baby. I was doing just fine before you got here.”

“Your father left you alone, terrified and starving to death.” He spat. It was a cheap shot, and he was sorry as soon as he said. She flinched as if he had struck her, then stepped back, eyes narrowing into flinty outrage. For a moment, he felt grateful that he had the forethought to take her pistol away.

“You know what? I’m out of here. I can find my dad without your help. You can go and find that weak little damsel in distress you seem to be looking for. Just stay out of my way, all right?”

She stalked off ahead of him. Dean followed after her.

“Krissy. Come on, wait a minute…”

They both froze in place at the sound of footsteps crunching heavily over the leaves and branches just ahead of them. Hand tightening reflexively around the pistol shoved into his belt, Dean moved closer to Krissy, protectively crowding into her space and keeping himself between the sounds and the young girl. They moved into a defensive posture, back to back scanning the tree line.

“Do you see anything?” Krissy whispered.

Dean shushed the girl, listening to footfalls. He leveled the pistol, snapping off the safety. He strained to distinguish sounds over the pounding of his heart. The last of the sunlight cast long shadows. Dean forced himself to focus on the shadows until eventually straight ahead of him, one of the shadows detached itself from the darkness.

  
“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake,” A man’s voice. American accent. “Pam sent me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Although Pam and Dean had a history, there were details in her past that even he was not privy to. In a military theater with multiple belligerent states, Pam appeared to have fingers in many pies. She leveraged, bargained and dickered Dean and Krissy’s transportation across roadblocks and checkpoints. With possible arrest looming over every horizon, Dean knew instinctively that it was better not to ask for specifics. 

 

The man sent to retrieve them from the rendezvous intercepted them before they arrived at the hospital, explaining that it was too dangerous. He piled them and their gear into a waiting jeep, where they bounced along on secondary roads, sometimes cutting their own path through fields. The man said little to them, and wouldn’t even give his name. Dean sat in the back of a jeep, Krissy sleepily leaning into his side. He struggled to stay awake by memorizing roads, street names and the names of the small farming villages they drove past. He was exhausted, injured and still shaken by the shooting, but he found that he could channel a lot of his anxiety into making this about the job. He was still working, this was still a story. He glanced down at Krissy from time to time. She slept fitfully, her eyes moving behind their lids. At one point she woke abruptly, gasping and barely stifling a scream. 

 

He gripped her gently by the arm, her body heat radiating through the thin jacket sleeve. He was almost able to completely encircle the tiny bicep with one hand. She was trembling. “You okay?” he asked.

 

She was breathing rapidly, she looked at Dean, not recognizing him immediately. “I didn’t mean… I.. He was…” she stammered. 

 

He knew with a look what she had dreamed about. Her face was a study in fear, loss and remorse. He regarded Krissy, a young, scared little girl seeing more than any kid should ever have to see. Then he thought of the young woman who pulled the trigger, killing a man with no hesitation. He didn’t know how both people could inhabit the same body. But there she was.

 

Dean moved his hand to her shoulder, calming her. “You’re okay Krissy. You’re safe.”

 

She came back to herself at his touch, embarrassed. She hid behind a smile, shaking her head and pulling away from him. “Wow. That was intense. Must have been something I ate.”

 

This troubled him. Still, he welcomed the levity and went along with it. “Don’t remind me. I’m starving.”

 

They were quiet for a time, each sitting on the far ends of the backseat, distracting themselves by watching the dark countryside move past. Every now and then Dean would turn around and watch Krissy, staring at the back of her head as she gazed out the window lost in her own pain. He looked at the set of her shoulders. The way she sat unmoving, hands held folded in her lap. This must be changing her. It had to be gouging out the innocent parts of her, leaving places that would never quite heal over. She was never going to get that innocence back and his heart broke for her. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. 

 

“I was hiding under my bed.” she murmured.

 

“What?”

 

“I hid under my bed. I was in the flat alone for five days before you got there,” she said. “The nights were the worst. The mortar fire was so loud. It shook the windows, and it wasn’t safe to turn on the lights. I’d tell myself that it was going to be okay, that the bombs wouldn’t get any closer. That Dad would be home in the morning. It was too much. I took my pillow and my blanket and I slept underneath my bed. Like a baby.”

 

“You weren’t being a baby, Krissy. You were scared.”

 

“I’m a coward.”

 

“You’re human. You don’t think that I’m not scared? Every minute we’ve been trying to get out of this stupid town?”

 

“You? Scared?” she said scornfully. “Whatever.”

 

“You remind me of my brother sometimes.” he said. “When we were kids, we spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes he’d freak out a little. I don’t know how many times I had to crawl into bed next to him just to get him to go to sleep. I would tell him that everything was going to be okay. That I wouldn’t let anything happen to him and he believed me. He thought that I had everything under control, but I was scared, too. We’re all scared. All of us.”

 

Krissy didn’t say anything to that. She looked at Dean with large red-rimmed eyes.

 

“Everything is going to be okay,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

 

After a while he turned back toward his window, staring at the black night.

 

* * *

 

 

By attempting to translate signs, Dean figured out that they were approaching Gori. They turned off of the secondary road and parked on the side of S-10 highway. Another vehicle waited from them, this time a truck. The man asked them to sit tight, grabbing a satchel he pulled up from the floorboards. He got out and walked over to the pick up spot, exchanging words with the truck driver. Dean could barely see. The satchel disappeared into the driver’s side window. By the sound of it, he was Georgian. He nodded to the driver and turned back to Dean and Krissy, motioning them to get out of the jeep. The Georgian demanded to see visas and any other traveling documents.

 

“Do you have any weapons?” The Georgian barked. Before Dean could deny it, he was pushed up against the truck and unceremoniously frisked. The man pulled the Glock from Dean’s waistband and handed it to the American.

 

“Sorry my friend, if you and the girl encounter a checkpoint and they find this, you go straight to jail. How do you Americans say?  You do not pass go, you do not collect your two hundred dollars. Do you understand what I mean?”

 

“Take it,” Dean said gruffly.

 

“Wait a minute,” Krissy interrupted. “That’s not yours to give away.”

 

The American turned to face Krissy. “You got two choices. Leave without your pistol, or stay here with it,” He looked to Dean. “You want to discuss this with her?”

 

“You need to learn when to pick your battles, Krissy,” Dean hooked a thumb at the driver. “This the hill you wanna die on?”

 

She considered it, and Dean was relieved when she gave in. “No, I guess not.” she said grudgingly. “Take it.”

 

Dean found himself sitting in the front seat of the old pickup with Krissy sandwiched between him and the new guy. He was more talkative, introducing himself as Samuel, Georgian accent thick on his tongue. They could see Gori miles before they arrived, flames illuminating the smoke as it billowed liberally out of bombed buildings. It hung thickly over the city, suspended like a dirty, tattered curtain in an abandoned home.

 

They’d been stopped twice by checkpoints, each time Dean was cautioned to say nothing, letting Samuel speak and handle their papers. He had to trust Pam’s judgement of the man. Whatever he was doing, it was working. They moved down into the city, the gorge disappearing and flattening into what used to be a green valley. In the two hour drive, Dean stopped checking his phone for reception. His phone’s battery had depleted rapidly. He had no idea what the next move was. He hoped that Andy and Pam had planned to meet them in Gori, but looking around, he began to feel like this was the last place they should be.

 

“This is not good, Dean,” For the first time since she put it on, she fingers had found her bracelet, picking at it. Her manner had become cagey. Wary. “Gori’s been hit, but it’s quiet. That can only mean one thing.”

 

“I know,” he replied. “If ground forces aren’t already here, they’re on the way. Out of the frying pan--”

 

“--and into the fire.” she finished.

 

They both looked at Samuel. Dean was the one to say what they were both thinking. “Samuel. It’s not safe here,” He said. “We need to move south.”

 

Samuel's brow creased with worry. “I was told to bring you to Gori. You are in Gori.”

 

“This place is going to be crawling with tanks.” Krissy reasoned. “If we all leave now and head toward Tbilisi, we might stay a step ahead of them.”

 

“Gori is my home,” Samuel replied, shaking his head. “I will not run. I will stay and fight.” He held the trucks keys out to Dean. “Stay on the secondary roads. You may find others also trying to reach Tbilisi.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Samuel. Come with us.” Dean pleaded.

 

Samuel smiled as if unconcerned. “I’ll pray that God delivers you to Tbilisi. Who knows? Maybe angels are watching over you.”

 

“If angels were watching over me,” Dean muttered, taking the keys, “they’d have made sure I missed my flight out of Beijing.”

 

* * *

 

Dean drove highway S-10 only when he had to. They felt safer on the back roads, eventually relaxing enough to breakfast on protein bars from Krissy’s bugout bag. She seemed unusually quiet. The few times Dean tried to engage her in conversation he received one word answers. Not being the talkative type himself, he left her alone with her thoughts after a while. Who knew what she had on her mind.

 

“What are our chances that my dad will be in Tbilisi?”

 

“He could be. We’ll find him one way or the other.”

 

“I won’t get on a plane without him, Dean.”

 

“I know. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

 

“Even if he’s…” she faltered, clearing her throat. “No matter what. I won’t leave without him.”

 

Dean passed her a bottle of water and tried to reassure her. “We don’t know what his status is. He’s probably fine. Just having a hard time making contact. No cell coverage, remember?”

 

She brushed off the idea. “C’mon, Dean. It’s been over a week. My dad would never--” she took a drink, swallowing loudly and he could see her trembling with the effort to keep it together. She swept errant hair out of her face, revealing a jagged wound along her hairline. Dried blood congealed in it like molasses. He met her eyes and she quickly looked away. He’d seen them, though. They looked like they’d seen enough shit to last a lifetime and for as strong as she was trying to be, she was breaking. He knew that if he put his arm around her and tried to tell her once more it would all be okay, she’d crack into a thousand pieces. It was hard but he held onto the steering wheel, stared at the road and pretended that he hadn’t seen them.

 

He said rather, “Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Krissy.”

 

“Are you going to tell anybody about what happened back there?”

 

He did a double-take at the change of subject. “A whole hell of a lot just happened back there. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

 

“I know you want me to be sorry about it, Dean. You want me to say it was an accident, that I didn’t mean to kill him, but I did. He was going to hurt you, and then he was going to hurt me. You saw it in his eyes, didn’t you?”

 

Rather than look at her head-on, Dean kept his eyes focused on her shoulder, shame-faced and trying his best to shake the feeling that she had heard his thoughts. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I saw it, but taking care of the situation wasn’t supposed to come down to you. I could have handled it.” To his horror, his voice grew husky. “Jesus, you’re just a kid.”

 

“You would have tried to talk him out of it. You’re a good man.” she had turned to face him, fingers worrying at the label on the water bottle. “I don’t know… You think that you can just  _ talk  _ people into doing the right thing. Into being good when it just doesn’t work that way. When I told you that I could never be good, I meant it. I try. I mean, I really try, but when it comes down to it, I’m no different than--”

 

“Don’t you dare put yourself in the same category as that asshole. You’re nothing like him,” He should have stopped talking. He was doing exactly what she accused him of but he couldn’t help it and he rushed on. “You’re not a bad person, Krissy. Maybe you did mean to shoot him. Maybe you didn’t think that there was any other way, I don’t know. What I do know is that you always have a choice. All of this crap, everything that’s happening right now will become part of who you are, but only you get to say how it defines you. You can choose to do good things.”

 

He could feel her looking at him. The intensity of her dark gaze seemed to still the air, and he waited for her to unload on him. After a long moment she sighed, looking away, shoulders set in that way she had. The one that said that she didn’t think that Dean had a clue.

 

“I won’t say anything,” he promised. “This will be the last time we talk about it. Ever.”

 

She nodded tightly and went back to staring out the window, her expression cold. He settled his eyes back on the dark road, rolling toward Tbilisi and an uncertain future.

 

 

* * *

  
  


It was just after five a.m. when they pulled into the Military Offices. No one questioned their access. Dean had guessed that Andy or Pam had left word at the guard station that they were to be expected. They pulled into a parking space, cut the engine and sat there for a moment, unsure of what they were walking into. Rather than going into the hospital proper, they had been directed to an annex being used as staging for media outlets.The low slung pale green building looked to be only a few years old, but it was pockmarked and Dean counted three windows that had been boarded up, piles of glass still lying beneath the sills. Dean slid out, guarding his shoulder from being jostled as he grabbed their gear.

  
  


Andy and Pam stood huddled together amidst a mountain of recording equipment, cameras and laptops. As soon as they heard the door open, they jumped to their feet, eyes narrowing down the long corridor where two dark figures stood.

 

“Christ,” Andy breathed, “It’s him! They made it.”

 

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see your sorry ass, man.” Dean beamed, clapping Andy on the shoulder and pulling him into a hug.

 

“Same here bro,” Andy replied, relief etching his features. Dean eyed the lithe figure of Pam standing off to the side. She was clad in her trademark head-to-toe black.  Her jeans fit her like a second skin, and her familiar leather jacket and t-shirt sent a pang of nostalgia so great that he wasn’t sure he would be able to speak. She looked down, distractedly kicking at the leg of a chair with her old leather Dingo boots. She waited for the boys to exchange hello’s, then Dean caught her eye, giving her a half smile.

 

“Pam.”

 

“About time you showed up, Winchester,” she said. Pam nodded toward Krissy. “This the little damsel in distress? Hiya, Princess.”

 

Not a princess, Krissy only glared in return. It was preferable to what Dean figured she most likely wanted to say, however. He stepped in before the young girl reconsidered.

 

“She’s actually none of those things, Pam. This is Krissy. Don’t let the ponytail fool you. She’s a badass,” he put a protective hand on her shoulder. “Krissy this is Pamela Barnes. She’s one of the best journalists in the business.”

 

Pam side-eyed him. “One of?”

 

“And did I mention how humble she is?”

 

“You want humble, or you want shit to get done?”

 

Pulling her in for a hug, he half-whispered, “Don’t ever change, darlin’.”

 

Pam softened long enough to return Dean’s hug, squeezing him tight and holding on to him like she thought he’d float away if she let go. She pulled back a little, getting a good look at him. For the first time since he arrived, he became aware that he hadn’t showered or shaved in a few days, and the couple of hours sleep he got were more like falling into unconsciousness than real slumber. He must look a mess, he thought to himself.

 

She gave him a small smile, seeming to read his mind. “No, you really are a sight for sore eyes.”

  
  


Andy set about gathering their paperwork together. They had a flight out of Tbilisi via military transport, and to Krissy’s relief, Andy’s contacts indicated that there were a half dozen interpreters and facilitators waiting to join them on a flight to Moscow. It was hoped that her father was on that flight. But no one could promise, and Dean didn’t know how he was going to get Krissy to get on the plane on a promise alone.

 

“If he’s not at the hospital, he’s not anywhere.” Pam said. “I’ve had people looking since Dean told me that he was missing.”

 

Krissy interjected. “But wouldn’t the hospital have been one of the first places that you checked?”

 

“Yes. It was, but things are fluid here. He could have been brought in after we checked, or he could have come in under another name. After having eliminated the obvious, at this point it would be best to look ourselves.”

 

Krissy kept her voice even. “Did you have them check the morgue?”

 

“Krissy--” Dean cautioned.

 

“No, she’s right,” Pam eyed Krissy with budding respect. “We did check. Nothing came up in our first pass, but again--”

 

“The only way to know for sure is to look ourselves.” Dean finished. God, he did not want to find Lee in the morgue.

 

Energized, Krissy grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

 

“Whoa, slow your roll, Super Girl. I know that everything seems chaotic… Well, actually it is chaotic,” Pam admitted. “Still, even when it all falls apart the military has rules. We have to travel by convoy. It’s still unsafe. It won’t be long, but we have to wait for the greenlight from the brass. Until then, you need to chill out.”

 

“Why don’t I scare something up for you to eat? You must be starving and we don’t know when we’ll get another chance.” Andy said.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Pam said once alone with Dean. They watched Andy lead Krissy down the corridor to the break room that had been set up. “Talk about hard edges.”

 

“Yeah, well, she’s seen some shit.”

 

“Looks like you have, too.” Pam studied him, eyes narrowing. “How are you doing, really?”

 

“You know me.” he gave her a smile that he hoped was convincing. 

 

She raised an appraising eyebrow, her mouth twisting. “You’re damn right I know you.” She looked down the hall after Krissy, then back at him, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “She get to you?” Pam’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “I don’t freaking believe it. Dean Winchester, the original heart of stone, taken down by a sixteen year old.”

 

“Nobody’s taken me anywhere. I’m just trying to get her back to her dad safe, that’s all.” Embarrassed, he forced a smile and added, “And close your mouth, or you’re gonna catch flies with that thing.”

 

“You sure she’s not the little sister you never wanted?”

 

Dean met her eyes expressionlessly..

 

“Jesus. Okay, all right Dean. I’m sorry, I’m just--I’ve never seen this side of you. Caring and shit.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

 

“No, I’m not talking about screwing around. Even when the two of us were together, you still put up walls. I never really got to know you. But you seem different now.” she smiled, letting her gaze linger on him. “If I wasn’t getting laid on the regular, I’d be jealous.”

 

For the second time in less than a minute, he reddened. Pam smiled, turning away. “Don’t worry, darlin’, you had your chance. You blew it.”

 

“It’s just that Krissy and I are not that different. I can see myself in her.” Dean frowned, pushing away the image of her haunted eyes looking at him in the darkness of the back of the jeep. “She’s on the edge of something important and I don’t want to see her make the same mistakes I did.”

 

“Good luck with that. Because if she really is like you, she’s going to do whatever the hell she wants, with or without the benefit of your wisdom.”

 

He felt an unwelcome tug of emotion. Of loss. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

 

They headed down the hall toward the break room, taking in the frenzy of activity of the surrounding journalists and cameramen. “I like this version of you,” Pam said. She smiled again, linking her arm in his. “I’ve softened too, you know,” she demurred, all coy eyes and reserved smile. “I read poetry now. I spend hours in quiet contemplation.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Fuck no. But I do have a poem.” She recited, “Love is like a butterfly, hold it too loose and it will fly away, hold it too tight and it will crush.”

 

“That is the crappiest poem I’ve ever heard, Pam.”

 

“You love it, you liar,” she pulled his arm closer, whispering in mock seduction. “I plan to have it tattooed on my ass.”

 

That got a genuine smile out of him. For the first time in days, he laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay,” Andy announced. “It is about time we blew this popsicle stand.”

 

The hospital was two and a half miles away. On a day when there wasn’t a full-scale war going on, any one of them would have been happy to walk the distance. As Dean and Krissy piled for the last time into the back of a jeep, Andy took the wheel with Pam shouting directions over the roar of the Operation Desert Storm-era engine. Andy pretended to listen while taking out a tiny camcorder and filming her with one hand and steering with the other.

 

They joined in at a place toward the middle of the convoy. Six vehicles, crawling across a newly laid blacktop. Krissy, buoyed by the idea of finding her dad at the hospital was chatty, asking Andy about what he did as a cameraman and even threw a question or two at Pam. Dean enjoyed the optimism, but he was careful. Casting glances at Pam, he noticed that although she had been relaxed inside the offices, outside she was watchful. She claimed not to know him well, but he knew her like the back of his hand. The single tight line that creased her brow. The telltale clenching and unclenching of her jaw. The way that she directed Andy in clipped phrases. He wanted to celebrate, but the heaviness in his chest wouldn’t let him. He wondered what it was about him that just couldn’t believe that good things happened. Maybe it went back to his teenaged years. Good things happen, just not to him.

 

They hadn't gone far. The convoy had moved just beyond the view of the military offices when Dean saw them first, off the asphalt roadway and into the stand of tall trees. A dirt road ran parallel to theirs, another vehicle pacing them through the thicket, popping in and out of his view through the pine like an old kinetoscope, a cloud of brown dust billowing in their wake. He saw several figures leap from a pickup, the truck slowing down only enough for them to hop out at a gallop, threading through the trees. His heart began to pound in his chest and he hoped against hope that he was misreading the situation.

“Guys, do you see that?”

 

“See what?” Pam swung around. She hadn't panicked yet, but she was definitely working up a head of steam.

 

“That,” Dean said, pointing to the trees. “There are soldiers out there. Are they on our side?”

 

Their jeep came under machine-gun fire from concealed positions. Bullets kicked up dust around the convoy and pinged off the vehicles armored exterior and glass, leaving spiderweb like cracks in the thick windows. Volleys of mortar shells crashed around them, trying to find the killing range among the crawling line of vehicles. Then, vehicle mounted grenade launchers went fully automatic. 

 

And all hell broke loose.

 

The car directly ahead of their jeep careened clumsily, veering toward the tree line before hitting a small ditch and flipping over. Enemy soldiers fired at the overturned vehicle until it erupted in a huge explosion raising dust. Their right front tire was shot out, but Andy continued to drive forward, the jeep’s limp becoming more pronounced as they bounced over uneven terrain. Dean heard yelling over the radio indicating that a vehicle to their rear had shot at an armored car. 

 

Smoke and dust hung heavy in the air. Andy panicked, gunning the engine and finally finding gear they lurched and loped away. Dean watched both Andy and Pam, heads swiveling toward the treeline. Andy had abandoned filming, dropping the camera forgotten into his lap, and gripping the wheel with both hands.

 

A figure moved off to the side of the road, camouflage jacket and jeans, rifle slung across his back. The slightly out of focus shape of him kneeling, bracing himself against a tall pine while he hefted the cylinder on top of his shoulder. Dean never made out the man’s face. He had seen grenade launchers before and horrified recognition detached him from what was happening. He saw fire flash, then tracked the rocket with almost clinical indifference as it silently barrelled across the pock-marked road. Dean thought dazedly that it looked like a roadrunner.

 

The rocket hit the front of the jeep taking with it most of the front of the vehicle, momentum sharply spinning the jeep, reversing their velocity but only slightly reducing their speed. The vehicle rolled backwards to a stop on its remaining rear wheels and for an agonizing eight-count, Dean couldn’t hear anything. That was the worst part. If he could rewind. Have those minutes back when he could hear them laughing. 

 

He had reflexively grabbed Krissy, pushing her head into his lap. She struggled to right herself as Dean held her down. He shouted now, heat and sudden nausea making him aware that they’d been hit.

 

Then gunfire.

 

Men, pouring from the cover of trees and brush. They traveled in pairs, advancing on the solitary jeep, bullets peppering the metal panels. Dean could see from his crouched position that Pam had been hit. She was grasping her thigh, doing her best to stanch the flow of blood between her fingers. She slid down to the floor boards, yelling for Andy to get down. Andy was inexplicably trying to put the jeep into gear, seemingly unaware that there was no longer a functioning engine or front wheels. Dean pushed Krissy to the floor and reached out for his friend, no longer thinking--just reacting. He clutched at Andy’s collar, yanking down as the front window cracked and splintered with the impact of a round. Krissy lay almost prone on the backseat, arms covering her head through a hail of gunfire. As Dean surged forward to pull Andy from the front seat she grabbed for him.

 

“Get down!” The girl reached up and lunged after Dean. He heard her and for a moment, time spun out and he was back at her apartment building standing in the darkened corridor as bombs fell. Arms encircling his waist, she tried to pull him back, the three of them in a macabre tug-of-war. Dean vaguely registered the sound of another vehicle screeching to a stop behind the jeep. Georgian soldiers. Something slammed into his side, knocking the wind out of him, but Krissy never let him go. Dean felt the impact of Krissy pushing him violently, detaching Andy from his grip. He landed hard, sprawling across the seat. Krissy fell heavily on top of him, and Dean protectively pulled her head down next to his. He scrambled around awkwardly, switching their positions. He maneuvered out from under while covering her.

 

The sound of gunfire and shouting continued, but their attackers were retreating. Breathing raggedly, he held Krissy close, muttering into her hair, telling her again and again that it was going to be okay. His face was so close to the girl’s head, all he could register was the out of focus motion of blurry dark hair swaying in time with his breathing. It was so quiet. The silence almost hurting his ears. He could only hear his breathing. In and out. In and out.

 

Just his breathing.

 

Dean pulled back slowly, loosening his grip on Krissy just enough. The girl came into focus with more distance. She looked so peaceful, laying there. Dean thought to himself that she believed him. She wasn’t worried because Dean had told her it would be okay. It explained why there was no shouting, no complaining, no looking to him to get her out of this mess.

 

“Krissy?” Anger flared in Dean at the shakiness in his voice. 

 

“Krissy.” His voice harder this time.

 

He sat up, pulling the unresponsive girl into his lap. Her head lolled back with his effort, and he gently caught it with his hand. He cradled her with one arm, the injured one. With heartbreaking deja vu, he felt along her back. His hands felt like stone when he found it. The slow, steady sensation of warmth and wetness on his fingertips. His pant leg. He looked down at it, pushing the girl back just far enough to see. Blood pooled along the side of her protective vest. Starting at her armpit, a semi-circle growing as if he was watching time-lapse photography.

 

He could hear a man yelling distantly. The voice was scraped raw and plaintive, begging for help. The cries sounded closer and closer until Dean realized to his horror that it was his voice, his shouts. And he couldn’t stop. The jeep door was yanked open, the muffled cacophony of soldiers pulling them from the vehicle.

 

“Are you hurt?” The corpsman asked. “Please, sir. I need to know if you are okay.”

 

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. “No. I’m all right,” he said. “Take the girl first. She’s injured.”

 

Another soldier opened the opposite door, reaching into the backseat. He looked Krissy over, pulling her into his arms and dragging her out.

 

“Careful!” Dean shouted. “She bleeding. You’re gonna make it worse.” The soldier paused for a moment, curious gaze on Dean. He looked away quickly, nodding. Dean watched as yet another soldier assisted in pulling the girl carefully away.

 

Several cars had joined the convoy, Dean didn’t know where they came from. He saw several vehicles he that thought looked like ambulances line the perimeter of what was now being called the ambush site. He watched numbly as two-men teams pulled Pam from the jeep, then Andy. They all worked busily, no one stopping to answer his questions. He could see Andy being borne away, two men running at a rehearsed jog. Pam’s voice carried over to him, she was yelling at them to stay the hell away from her. Dean felt a moment of relief to know that if she was yelling, she was alive. A man draped a blanket around his shoulders. Dean shrugged it off, standing and making his way over to the two men working feverishly over Krissy.

 

“Krissy,” he called. “You okay over there?” He silently cursed himself. He sounded dangerously close to tears. Dean stood, heart slugging away in his chest. The ground surrounding her was littered with syringes, tubing, a man was holding an IV bag. Two more were carefully lifting her onto a stretcher. Dean’s head pounded as he stormed toward the group, the rush of blood roaring in his ears.

 

One of the corpsmen placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, reassuring. “She’s alive, but unconscious. She’s lost a lot of blood. We’re taking her to the hospital.”

 

Dean leaned over her stretcher. Had she always been that small? Vulnerable? He looked into her face, pallid, but peaceful. Finally peaceful. He took her hand into his, bending down and touching it to his forehead. Dean noticed for the first time that their bracelets matched. He’d forgotten about them, only remembering that he was wearing it when it slipped down his wrist, the leather pooling near his hand like a small lasso. He watched the wind catch a few strands of her hair, whipping it up and swirling softly until it came to rest across her eyes. Dean reached out, gently moving the hair back into place and tucking it behind her ear. 


	6. Chapter 6

_“Drink.”_

_“Still not thirsty, Dean.”_  

_“Don’t make me force you.”_  

_“Fine, happy?”_  

_“I’m tickled pink.”_  

He was dreaming. At least he thought he was. Where was he? Dean pushed thoughts around in his head like furniture, looking for an important memory that he must have misplaced. He hurt. He wasn’t home. What was that smell?

A hospital. The hospital. Pam. Andy.

Krissy.

He lay on a cot wobbling in and out of consciousness. The sounds, smells and frequent jostling of his small piece of real estate kept any real sleep at bay. He cracked an eye open. A bleary water-stained section of ceiling sagged above him, plaster peeling away like sycamore bark. One good rainstorm would finish the room off for sure. Dean wasn’t alone. He tried counting the cots and gurneys but gave up in a cloud of despair. Each was full, and for every person occupying one, there were two or three people who looked like they needed care at least as badly. He swallowed dryly, realizing they were villagers. Civilians. Innocent bystanders.

 

Mothers. Children. Little brothers.

 

The smell. Bleach, vomit and the metallic tang of blood crowded the corridor. A pale, squat woman in careworn nursing whites weaved through patients, stopping in front of him, pill in hand and pantomiming that he should take it for the pain in his shoulder. He sat up and popped the pill, swallowing it dry. The nurse seemed unwilling, or for all Dean knew, unable to give him any information. She took his pulse with warm hands and deft fingers, then bustled away to drug another member of the walking wounded. She quickly triaged as she went, checking bloodied bandages, rousing the unconscious and doing her best to make them comfortable. In a macabre rendition of musical chairs she moved the mortally wounded to empty cots as the dead were removed. She paid particular attention to the children, looking into their traumatized, haunted faces. Attending to them by treating for shock helped, but it was her gentle touches and soft murmurs that seemed to comfort them.

 

She disappeared among the cots, gurneys and patients unlucky enough to injure themselves after all the beds were taken. He hopped down, slipping bare feet onto the cold floor. The strange bracing sensation brought with it his recollection of the launcher. The bullets. The blood. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the fear welling up like tears. It was reflexive now. The pounding of blood in his ears, the rush of fight or flight adrenaline. Terror was his new and constant companion. It unsettled him how fast he had become accustomed to being afraid. It felt almost Pavlovian.

 

The first stirrings of whatever the nurse gave him clouded his thoughts. _One thing at a time._ He drew a deep breath, trying to clear his head. _Boots. I came here with boots_. He ducked under the cot, relieved to see his Timberland’s neatly tied together, socks tucked into one of the boots and pushed against the wall. Some kind soul had even managed to shove his backpack in next to them. He pulled his boots on and threaded through the crowded corridor, looking for his friends.

 

Walking through the halls made Dean re-think the state of the ceilings. Pock-marked slate grey walls showed exposed cinder block. Corridor activity thinned as some rooms appeared abandoned, their windows blown out, shards of glass hanging from the sill like ragged teeth. He rounded a corner to yet another wing. The walls were better maintained, the hall better lit and the smell of sickness and death dissipated. He peeked into rooms as he passed, none empty; rather each and every room housed patients.

 

Dean froze as a soldier came around the far end of the corridor, boots clomping like hooves. The soldier seemed to be walking aimlessly, appearing to be more of a sentry than a man with a mission, but he was holding his rifle at the ready, finger hovering near the safety mechanism. Dean couldn’t tell which fighting force he was on and had long since given up trying to figure it out. He was tired of being on the wrong side of shoot first, ask questions later.

 

He backtracked, ducking behind the corner. Heart in his throat, he searched frantically for a room, a hiding place. Then, in an act of cosmically bad timing his pocket vibrated, the guitar riff of his favorite classic rock song filling the corridor. He fumbled his phone out jabbing the answer button, Sam’s face in a sidelong grin on the screen. Backing against the wall, Dean winced at something digging into the small of his back. Door handle. He reached for it, pushing the door open and slipping quickly into the dark room. Short of breath and staring into the darkness, he rasped into the phone.

 

“Jesus,” he hissed. “Sam I can’t--” 

“Don’t hang up Dean, I found Lee.”

Dean gripped the phone, momentarily forgetting the armed soldier roaming the halls. “You found Lee? Where?”

“I’ve been calling your phone for hours. It took me an hour to find the number to your other phone. Where the hell are you?” 

“Long story, Sam.” Dean listened for the soldier. He relaxed slightly, hearing the footfalls receding into the distance. “Where is he?” 

“Lee has a contact here in the US. I spoke to him the other day when you had me check him out. The contact called me, letting me know that he’d heard from Lee,” Sam explained. “Get this: he’s in the hospital, registered under a John Doe.” 

Like pieces of a puzzle, the events of the last couple of days were starting to fall into place. He had to ask the question, but he was sure he already knew the answer. 

“What hospital, Sam?” 

“A military hospital just inside of Tbilisi,” he replied. “Only just regained consciousness. He’s calling in favors to get him and his daughter out of the country.” 

Dean slumped, head falling back lightly against the door. He felt like he wanted to throw up, the combination of painkillers and crushing guilt made his head spin. 

“You have Krissy with you, right?” he heard Sam’s tinny voice traveling thousands of miles away. “Just get her to the hospital. She can reunite with her dad there.” 

Dean clenched his eyes shut, “Shit.” 

Sam was quiet for a long moment. Dean was beginning to think that he had lost the signal when Sam spoke, dread lacing his words. 

“What’s happened?” 

Dean told him everything, the whole story spilling out of him like he was in a confessional. Sam listened to him, only interrupting to clarify a time or place. When Dean ran out of story, he sounded wrung out. Emotionless. 

“I should have left her there in Tskhinvali, Sam. Lee would have sent someone. They would have gotten there and she’d be safe.” 

“No. You didn’t have a choice, Dean.” Sam said. “Bombs were falling. The city was in flames.” 

“I don’t even know if she’s okay--” 

“Dean.” 

“What if she’s--” 

“Dean,” Sam cut him off. “Listen to me. Krissy is there in the hospital. She’s getting everything she needs. You got her there. You did that. Do you understand?” 

Dean nodded, knowing that Sam couldn't see him. He took a ragged breath and leaned back pressing against the door and focused on a thin amber ray of light managing to shine through a broken slat in the shuttered windows. Tiny dust motes swam in the sun-yellowed air like snowfall. He didn’t trust himself to speak. But this was Sam. Sam had a way of hearing him through the miles, through the silence. He always had. 

“I hate that I’m not there. I should be with you.” 

“No, Sammy--” 

“You’ve always been there for me. My whole life Dean, you always been there whenever I needed you.” 

“You’re my brother. Where else would I be?” 

“I need something from you right now. Can I ask for one more thing?” 

“Name it.” 

“Let me be there for you for once, Dean. Come home,” he said. “Please. Just come home.”

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat. This was just the fallout of the last forty eight hours. His emotions were just catching up to him. He clutched the phone, eyes closed and picturing his brother on the other end. Concerned. Always concerned. 

“Okay.” he answered. “Okay.”

 

* * *

  

She looked rough. _No_ , Dean thought, _she looked dead._  

She was going to be okay. He stood in the doorway of the room. It had once been a treatment room, several empty gurney’s pushed to one side, Krissy’s lone bed nestled in the far corner near a dilapidated shelf of medical supplies. The floor was a dirty checkerboard linoleum, dusted with plaster knocked from the ceiling from the force of continuous shelling. The late afternoon sun cast long sepia shadows across the bed. He watched her tiny fragile form in the anemic light, IV tube snaking out from under the sheet to a bag of clear liquid. From across the room he ticked off the seconds by watching the IV’s drip chamber. One. Two. Three. Staring at her chest he relaxed only after he spotted the rise and fall of the threadbare sheet. He had to really look to see it. The ponytail was gone now, her hair a mess of dark tendrils fanning across the pillow like an octopus cast ashore. Seeing her laying there so still and so pale, his mind worked to pair this Krissy with the fidgety smartass he’d come to know and care so much about. 

He did care about her. He let the phrase sit in his mouth for a bit, testing, savoring then slowly accepting that he liked the taste of it. For once, it didn’t have the rancid, bitter tang of fear, loss.  Krissy was his friend. The little sister he never had. He wanted good things for her. But he _could_ let her go back to her dad. He could let her live her own life. He’d miss her like hell, but he could still care, and he would be okay without her. His eyes stung at the realization and he wiped impatiently at the tears. 

She roused after a time, eyelashes fluttering, heaving a lungful of air like she had lingered too long underwater. Dean was by her side in a couple of strides. Krissy struggled to adjust, pain and disorientation stilling her head. Her eyes pinwheeled in and out of focus until they came to rest on Dean. He stood silent, watching her narcotic-addled brain organize itself into sharp coherence. She smiled, or at least Dean thought she smiled. It was there and gone so fast he might have imagined it. 

Leaning over her, he gently pushed a lock of hair from her face. “Are you with me?” 

“Hey.” she said. 

“Hey.” he said. 

It was something and sometimes, something was all you needed.

 

* * *

 

Dean had seen the dead before. He told himself that it was no big deal. Not his first rodeo. He chalked his reluctance to pay his respects to Andy up to fact that he had grown weary. Weary of losing good people. Weary of the diminishing return of covering global events that helped more people than it hurt.

They had given him permission to see Andy one last time. The regular morgue was full, so his friend lay in a temporary place until arrangements could be made to have him returned home. He was told to make it quick as the weather was warm and refrigeration was in short supply. He stood at the double doors, white body bags and green tarps making the floor of the disused cafeteria resemble a giant motherboard. Some part of his brain absently picked up the odor of vinyl, paint fumes, and something else that made him reluctant to cross the threshold. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the sight of tiny bags. There were so many.

He walked through the rows feeling eerily like he was browsing. He examined each bag, letting the black stencil-font numbers lead him across the room. He found bag 023 near the windows that lined a far wall. He stood at Andy’s feet, hesitating before stepping forward and pulling the thick zipper tab down and open. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, shuddered and closed his eyes.

  


_He had first met Andy in Istanbul in the Besiktas district. The sun shone hot over the city and he sought shelter under the teagarden’s sun bleached awning. Men gathered, sprinkled through the courtyard straddling tiny wooden stools on uneven flagstones. Most shot the shit with each other hunched over perpetual games of backgammon, while still others talked hushed politics among the clothing shops and tattoo parlors. Dean sipped at his tea, eyeing a round cat in the doorway of a tailor. It was napping on an abandoned paperback novel when Andy seemed to step out of the shadows within the shop, his Tommy Bahama and huaraches giving him the comic look of the worst sort of tourist. Andy squat down, scratching behind the felines ears with practiced familiarity._

_“Gallagher?” Dean asked._

_“Yeah, call me Andy.”_

_Andy had a natural eye for taking pictures. He had went to school and apprenticed with the best, but when it came down to it, when the rubber hit the road, the talent, beauty and heart of his pictures came to him as easily as breathing. They were the product of something that was born in him. Dean’s interest in photography came from Andy, and it was in taking pictures that their friendship-- developed , for the lack of a better word._

_They sat in front of the laptop, looking at Andy’s now-famous photo. It featured two Israeli soldiers guarding their position in a hotly contested neighborhood. The IDF soldiers were holed up in a small dark room, light streaming in through a dozen holes made by bullets and shrapnel. The dust of months of shelling, bombing and firefights hung in the air. Andy captured the claustrophobia, dogged determination and the real price of freedom in that single image._

_“I can’t believe it.” Dean touched the laptop’s screen almost reverently. “I mean I can, because you’re fucking awesome, but Jesus, Andy. The short list.”_

_Andy never liked to talk about his assignments as an embedded journalist. His pictures spoke for him. When pushed, Andy defaulted to humor. “I’m just thinking about all the sweet tail I’m gonna be pulling in.”_

_“Yeah,” Dean deadpanned. “forget the prestige and widespread respect and admiration of your peers. A Pulitzer is really good for all that sweet tail.”_

 

Dean opened his eyes, looking down at the body. It didn’t look like Andy. It was his body all right, Andy’s face, but all that was truly Andy was long gone. What lay in the bag was just something he'd left behind. Dean thought about his friend, how quick he was to laugh and how once befriended, he was a friend for life.

 

“I’ll take you back home, man.”

 

* * *

 

Dean sat at Pam’s bedside by the window. He peered through the dust streaked glass watching three soldiers load a truck. Two of the men wore camouflaged uniforms and lifted heavy boxes while the third soldier wearing a tshirt a camp pants stood on the bed of the truck. He pulled on the box, maneuvering it into joining its place with the others. The men smiled and traded insults, a peal of laughter filtering through the window’s transom. The last box was hefted and loaded, the soldier agilely jumping off the bed and helping to shut the tailgate.

“Hello, Is that you, Dean?” 

He started, not expecting her to wake for hours yet. “Hey, Pam.” he said softly. 

Pam roused slowly, wincing at the pain. Her leg injury wouldn’t allow much movement. “My freaking head is killing me.”

Dean stood. “I’ll get a doctor for you--” 

“No,” She reached out for him, tentative hands hovering near his arm. “Don’t go. Not yet.” Dean swallowed, staring at her outstretched hand for a beat before taking it. She seemed to relax at his touch. “Did they tell you?” 

His voice was rough. “Yeah. I know.”

“Have you seen him?” She whispered, as if saying it loud would somehow make it true. “You have to make sure, Dean. You have to make sure it’s really him.” 

“I’m sure, Pam. He’s gone. Andy’s gone.” 

They sat silently for a time, Dean tracking the path of tears gathering on the edge of her eyes and slipping down the slope of her cheeks. The trail ended at the bolt of her jawline, dripping and absorbing into her cotton gown. She lay almost entirely immobile. Except for her eyes. They blinked and moved in a desperate search for something. 

“I can’t see. Did you know that? They said I hit my head. Some kind of fucking brain trauma, and now I can’t see.” 

“I know.” 

“Fuck.” she said. Dean held her hand. He tightened it reflexively. 

“Fuck.” 

She blinked, her brows drawing together. Her voice was strained when she repeated, “My freaking head is killing me.” 

“They won’t know anything until the swelling’s gone down. Your vision could come back.” he spoke with forced optimism. “It will come back.” 

“Get me out of here, Dean.” 

“I will.” 

Pam squeezed his hand. Dean felt pins and needles beginning to prickle in his fingers. “You’ll get me out of here? You promise?” 

“I’m taking you to Moscow. There’s a good hospital there.” He leaned in, mouth within a hair’s breadth of her ear. He whispered, and it came out harsh. Like an oath. “We’ll fix this.” 

She held onto him tightly and he took it. She smeared her tears on his cheeks and he took those, too. She trembled until she calmed and after a while she let him loose. She took a breath, laughing humorlessly. “I’ve been to twenty seven countries. I’ve been shot, stabbed, I’ve covered Ebola outbreaks, I’ve had Chikungunya for Christ sake. I can not believe that I’m being taken out of commission by a bump on the head.” 

Pam had quieted, soothed by Dean holding her hand, his thumb brushing a reassuring rhythm across the back of her hand. A nurse appeared, asked Pam a couple of questions and dosed her with something for pain. As she drifted off she gave Dean’s hand a last gentle squeeze.

 

* * *

 

Levan Cholokashvili, aka Lee Chambers, had essentially missed the war. He was arrested and then hospitalized. What happened between the two events was anybody’s guess. Every time Dean asked a doctor, a translator, or a quasi-official liaison for the military what exactly occurred, he got a different answer. Lee unfortunately, could remember nothing beyond the initial arrest.

“They were taking me in for questioning. No reason,” Lee said, blinking at Dean through blackened eyes. “I spoke English, that made them suspicious. I had press credentials. That made them mad. They loaded me into the back of a pickup with four other guys and took me to this the police station. I tried calling you, Dean. Cell phone coverage was nonexistent.”

“And they never charged you with anything?” Dean asked. Sitting at the man’s bedside, he tried not to stare too hard at the mess of bandages covering his head. He was giving _The Mummy_ a run for his money. 

“No. It’s like martial law, here.” he replied. “Civil liberties take a backseat to restoring order. I wasn’t worried about it, though. I know people.” 

“You know people?” 

“Yeah. Connections. I could have called in a couple of favors given the chance. But they were looking for information that I didn’t have. It got physical. Everything gets a little blurry after that.” 

“They beat you?” 

“Like I stole something, man.” Lee nodded, blanching at the memory. “Next thing I know, I’m getting a sponge bath from Nurse Ratchett. The first thing I do is try to call Krissy, tell her I’m all right and that I’m sending someone to get her out of town.” he regarded Dean with a mixture of gratitude and relief. “But I guess you beat me to it. Thank you, man.” 

Dean didn’t know where to start. He bit back the guilt gnawing at his insides and told himself to stick to the facts. 

“Krissy is here, but she’s hurt.” he began. “I did everything I could to--”

“Dean, I know.” Lee cut him off. “I heard about what happened. I also heard that she’s going to pull through’” he reached up, shaky hands gripping Dean’s. “You look like death warmed over. Has this been eating you up? Krissy getting hurt, is that it?” 

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn't care if Lee was recovering from a head injury. If this man was going to tell him that he was not responsible for what happened to her, he was going to throttle him. 

“Let’s go over the facts,” Lee said. “Fact. My contact would not have made it to Krissy in time. Troops moved in too quickly. He’s already told me that. Fact. Telman street was leveled. Not a building left standing. If she stayed put, she’d be dead. Fact. I know my daughter. She’s independent to a fault. No one tells Krissy what to do. If she was with you, you better believe that it was where she wanted to be. Last thing? You can’t control what happens during war, Dean. You just can't.” 

Dean let out a breath, two day’s worth of anger at neither of them having done right by Krissy simmering in his gut. He thought about Sam. In his dreams Sam asked him about how running from responsibility was working for him. Sitting with Lee, seeing how happy he was to know that he still had his family, in that moment he didn't want anything more than the chance to see his brother again. His family.

 

* * *

 

With Lee stable enough to leave and Krissy still on the mend, he and Dean set about making arrangements to get them back to the States. Krissy was sitting up when Dean made his way back to her room. He felt relief wash over him to see a little more color in her cheeks. 

She looked up and smiled weakly. “Look what the cat dragged in.” 

“I bear gifts,” he said. He pulled a chocolate bar from his jacket pocket, tossing it on the bed. 

“Chocolate? What’s the special occasion?” 

“Nothing,” he tried a smile, a little forced levity. “Everything. Just take the damned candy.” 

Without either acknowledging it, they shared a moment, thinking about all the people that had been lost. Krissy spoke first. “You know, we spent so much time getting here, or at least getting out of _there_ that I hadn’t given myself the chance to think about the moment we’d be leaving Tbilisi.” she sighed. “It’s weird.” 

Dean nodded. “I spoke to your dad. You’ll both be on a plane by the end of the week.” 

“What about you? Will you see Sam?” 

“It’ll be a couple of weeks. I need to get Pam settled in Moscow. She has friends there. People who will take good care of her while she recovers.” 

Krissy nodded, thinking. “Tell her that I’m thinking about her, okay?” 

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Are you?” 

“Don’t let that get around,” she joked. “I don’t want to ruin my reputation.” 

“I think that your reputation is intact.” 

Her mood turned serious. She held Dean’s gaze and he thought of that moment when she gave him the bracelet. “Dean, I don’t really remember a lot about the ambush. Bits and pieces really, but I can put enough together to know that you saved my bacon. Again.”

“Krissy-” 

“I know. I’m not going to make it weird for you.” With a wince, she bought up a hand, placing it on his arm. “Just...thank you.” 

“You want to thank me? Make good on your promise to go back to school.” 

Her eyes slid away. “Yeah, about that. Dad and I talked a little. I told him that I was keeping my options open.” 

“What do you mean, options?” 

“I’m going to school, that parts settled, but…” 

“But...” 

“I’m not sure I want to major in business anymore.” 

“What? Why not? You’re smart, you’ll skate right through.” 

“Maybe. It’s a good major, but I was thinking about doing something that had a more...I don’t know...lasting impact. I was thinking about journalism.” 

“You want to be a journalist?” 

Even smiling took effort, but she pushed through, out of habit. “Sure, why not? There’s a lot going on out there. I can tell those stories. Make a difference. Like you, Dean.” 

“Krissy, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, believe me, but it’s not the job you think it is.” 

“I know.” 

“No, you don’t. What we just went through? That’s not your typical gig. It’s a lot of false leads. A lot of hurry up and wait. Non-stories. It's not Indiana Jones.” 

She colored, remembering when he was re-bandaging her ankle. “I'm sorry about that Willie crack. I shouldn't--” 

“Forget it. Besides, I don't care about that. I care about you staying safe.” 

“I knew you’d be this way.” 

“Damn straight I’m going to be this way.” 

“This thing you do? Telling people's stories and helping people? You said that you believed if you didn't do it, no one would know and no one would help,” she reminded him. She looked into his eyes with the same defiant gaze she gave him on the day they met. “Everyone deserves to be cared for. Like you cared for me. You made me feel like I was worth it, Dean. I want to do that for someone else. Give somebody a chance where they didn't have before.” 

Dean sighed, shaking his head. “Krissy don't quote me to me. It's not fair.” 

“It's about to get worse, okay?” She was paling, even the effort of talking was getting to be too much for her. “I'm going to ask you to stop running. When you see Sam and Jess? Make it permanent. You have a chance at something good with them,” she managed a smile. “You're worth it.” 

She held his gaze, eyes brooking no dissent and as small and broken as she looked then, he knew he’d lost the argument. Dean couldn't think of another person on the planet that he wanted to both throttle and hug. 

“Journalism, huh?” 

“Don’t get your tighty whitie's into a bunch. I’ll really look into it. Think it through. If it turns out that it’s not for me, I’ll walk away. Fair enough?” 

“Okay,” he nodded. “Good.” 

“Really? I thought that I was going to have to fight you way more on that.” 

“You’re right. You’re not a little kid anymore, you can make your own decisions.” 

“I just hope that no matter what I decide to do, we’ll still be friends.” 

“We’ll always be friends, Krissy. I’m proud of you.” 

“Shut up before I punch you.” 

He smiled and held out his fist. She batted it out of the way, instead reaching up, and as soft as a summer breeze she planted a kiss on his cheek.

 

* * *

  

The lake rippled, alive with the wind. Clouds mirrored the dark surface while cattail hugged the edges of the waterway, bunching up around the dock like unruly hair. Spruce. Pine. White Birch. They all sang, leaves and branches swaying to the music of a gentle breeze. The weather-beaten deck chair pressed solidly into his back and butt. His shoulder was giving him hell this morning, a sure sign that the rain was coming. 

But not today. 

Reclining stiffly, he made the image of a man plucked from the hustle and bustle and dropped kicking and screaming into Paradise. A green ice chest sat beside him, scuffs and dents divulging years of being lovingly battered. Sam shambled up, flip flops thwapping against the dock. He yawned and scratched at this belly. He toed open the chest, pulling two longnecks from the ice and tossing one to Dean. Sweat clung to the smoky glass and Dean touched the beer bottle to his forehead enjoying the feel of it. A rod hung within an arm’s length of the chair, fishing line disappearing beneath the surface in a silky thread. Sunlight glinted off of the rod and line like spun gold. It dipped and bowed with unseen and erratic activity from below. Big fish were biting. Sam caught a Steelhead yesterday. He hoped that today was his day for a big one.  
  
“You fishing or napping out here?” Sam threw himself into the deck chair next to him, taking a long pull from his beer. 

“Little of both.” 

“Good.” 

They sat in the sun for a while, listening to birdsong. Dean was remembering walking through the treeline with Krissy. He thought of the lizards that came out of the shadows to sun themselves on the rocks. 

“How’s Pam?” Sam asked. 

“Rehab went good. Her vision's back to normal. She’s settled back in her condo in Rapid City. Fired her physical therapist and now they’re dating.” Dean smiled. “She told me to go fuck myself. Sounds like she’s almost back at a hundred percent.” 

“Good news.” Sam replied. He hesitated then,  “Anything from Krissy?” 

Dean looked down at his beer, noticing the delicate leather bracelet on his wrist, silver clasp catching the sunshine. He considered taking it off and putting it away somewhere safe. Each time, he made some excuse, promising he’d get around to it soon. He never did. He was worried about her. Two months and counting. He was working on letting it go. It was still a work in progress. 

“Nothing since she moved back to Lawrence.” 

His eyes were closed against the sun, and he felt Sam studying him. “You’re doing great, you know. She’s okay. You just gotta give her a little time, Dean.” 

“Yup.” he nodded. A work in progress. 

“Dean?” 

“Sam.” 

“I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Me, too Sammy. Me too.” 

Wispy clouds feathered the blue sky. Dean looked up into it, tilting the last of his beer into his mouth, enjoying the pleasant burn of it in his throat. He leaned forward, rolling his bad shoulder while treating his brother to a chest-rattling belch. 

“Good one.” Sam laughed. 

“Don’t say I never gave you anything, Sammy,” he threw him a sidelong grin. “You’re welcome.”

He was on an extended vacation after writing about his time in South Ossetia. The story had been well received. It had been picked up by Human Rights Watch and helped shed light on some of the human rights abuses perpetrated on those long four days of summer. Offers to cover other stories arrived almost daily, but without Andy working at his side, he didn’t know what he wanted to do next. Sam and Jess didn’t seem to be in any rush to have him move along, so he cooked the odd meal for them. He replaced Jess’ starter on her old Honda Civic. He fished on the lake and had long unimportant conversations with Sam. He had something good with them and for the first time in a very long time, he was happy.

  
He was worth it.


	7. Epilogue

Date: Sat, 8 Nov 2008 00:22:02 +0000 (UTC)  
From: Krissy <kchambers@student.ku.edu>  
To: Dean <impala67@gmail.com>

 _Dean,_  

 _I suck at writing. I’ve waited way too long to catch you up._  

 _How’re Sam and Jess? Are you taking good care of them? I know that they’re helpless without you :) Seriously, though. If I find out that you’re not being good to yourself, I will find you, and I will hurt you._  

 _So. About me. I feel like I’m almost back to normal physically. I’ve learned that it’s best to keep busy. I keep a journal. It helps. Dad’s doing better, too. I think that he’s going a little crazy stuck here Lawrence, but it’s good for him. He’s happy._  

_I'm almost finished with my first semester at KU. It's hard. The course work’s easy, it's just mind-numbingly boring. I told dad that I would stick it out. I don’t know about that._

_I met someone. His name is Aidan, and he’s smart and sweet and funny and has the world’s greatest smile. He’s a PoliSci major with an emphasis in International Studies. He’s thinking about taking a gap year and traveling to Turkey. It sounds crazy, right? He reminds me a little of you._  

 _I try not to think too much about what happened. But some days, especially when it’s nice outside, I walk the trails. I close my eyes and listen to the wind in the trees and think about picking berries and watching the lizards._  

 _Is that weird?_  

 _I know that we agreed not to talk about it--and I won’t--but you said to me that in spite of all the shit that we’ve went through, I get to decide how I’m going to let those experiences guide me. I think that you were right._  

 _I’ve been doing a lot of reading and writing, and the more I learn the more I can see that there are stories that need to be told. There are people like Mrs. Jakobia and her boys, your friend Andy, Pam and her way of getting shit done, even Samuel who refused to leave the only place he knew as home. I hate to think that no one will ever know about their courage or their sacrifices. They are heroes. The world is full of heroes._  

_Like you._

_I know that you’re not wild about the idea but I need to find those stories._

_I can see your face now._ _You’re pissed._  

 _I know that you feel guilty. You feel responsible for filling my head with dangerous ideas and romanticized notions about traveling the world. If you really want to blame yourself for something, take the blame for showing me that I can_ do _good, even if I don't think I_ am _good. Feel responsible for teaching me that when all else fails, help someone. When all else fails, love someone._  

 _You once said that the world was big and it needed me. I’m going to make myself useful. I’m going to choose to do good things._  

 _I’ll keep in touch. I promise._  

_K-_

  
_p.s. You’re not so bad, for an old guy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would not have been able to attempt writing a novella-sized fic without the support, encouragement and inspiration of many people. Thanks goes out to [Supernaturallynoble](http://supernaturallynoble.tumblr.com/), [Winjennster](https://winjennster.tumblr.com/), [Trekchik](http://trekchik.tumblr.com/), [Powerfulweak](http://powerfulweak.tumblr.com/) and [The Ninjaksquared](https://theninjaksquared.tumblr.com/) for their everyday laughter and friendship. My gratitude also goes out to all those fic writers whose outstanding work always pushes me to work harder and reach farther.
> 
> Look for me on Tumblr under [Metatron-the-transformer](http://metatron-the-transformer.tumblr.com/). Don't be a stranger.


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